


You Give Me Fever

by erebones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Camping, Clothed Sex, Darkspawn, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Grey Wardens, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor Carver Hawke, M/M, Making Up, Married Couple, Married Sex, Morning After, Post-Blight, Pre-Slash, Public Display of Affection, Requited Love, Rimming, Sex in a Car, Strip Tease, Tumblr Prompt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 53,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6038662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short one-shots from prompts people give me on tumblr, centered around Felix Alexius and Carver Hawke and their shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you've got me up against the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to keep all my prompt fills in one place, so here they are! Feel free to follow [my tumblr](http://erebones.tumblr.com/)! This one is [against the wall kiss](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/134699759920/40-against-a-wall-kiss-for-fever-please), prompted by [earlgreyer1](http://earlgreyer1.tumblr.com/).

 

“Do you like them? Do you like them? Oooh, baby, tell me what you _really_ think.”

“Get away from me,” Carver gasps, red in the face with laughter as Felix crowds him against the wall. “Jesus, Fee, stoppit! You’re tickling me!”

“That’s the point,” Felix sniggers as he rubs his beard against Carver’s neck with increasing vigor. He tilts his head to avoid pressing his new glasses against his face and kisses Carver’s throat, reveling in the spicy scent of his beard oil and the warm, bristled skin where he trims the wiry hair into shape. “Mmmmm. You smell good.”

“You too.” Carver has stopped trying to get away and his hands have found their way into Felix’s back pockets. “You’re a handsome devil, Fee, and you know it." 

"So you like them?”

“Of course I like them.” He frees one hand to slide the glasses up and into Felix’s hair. “But I like you more.”

Felix nuzzles Carver’s beard and lets their bodies mold together, his front to Carver’s front and Carver’s back to the wall in the corner of their kitchen. “How much?”

“Mmmm.” His fingers squeeze the curve of Felix’s arse. “So much.” He leans in for a kiss, but Felix backs his head away, pouting.

“ _How_  much?”

Carver’s eyes narrow, and he leans in close enough that their noses almost brush. “I fucking _love_ you, Felix Hawke.”

Felix nearly purrs with satisfaction and leans in to mold their mouths together. Carver responds immediately, digging his hands in and hauling Felix against his chest, and he parts his lips to draw in Felix’s tongue. Felix tangles his fingers in Carver’s hair, giddy, full of the taste and smell of him. 

“I love you, too,” he gasps out when they part, pressing their foreheads together. As if on cue, his glasses slip down to bump against Carver’s scalp. When he pulls back, they slip down to the very tip of his nose and stay there, magnifying Carver’s eyes into big blue marbles. They crinkle in a smile. 

“Hello, handsome.” Carver pushes the glasses back into place and gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Now let me up, the pasta’s done.”


	2. kiss me like a child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from [jack-the-giantkiller](http://jack-the-giantkiller.tumblr.com/), [first kiss](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/134728025320/23-and-fever-for-the-write-a-kiss-prompts). Warning for underage smoochin'.

“Ouch!”

“Are you okay?”

Carver looked up from the blood welling under his fingernail to the dark, slim boy standing just a few feet away. He was probably Carver’s age or thereabouts, with serious brown eyes and a snub nose and his brows all wrinkled with concern. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine in a minute. Banged my thumb when I was pounding stakes.”

The boy examined Carver’s attempt at setting up a tent. “Mr. Duncan has ice in the cooler. I’ll be right back.”

Carver watched him go, a little baffled. He had been going to scout camp in the summers for as long as they’d lived in New York, going on eight years now, and he knew every face in their mismatched little group except for this one. He thought his name was Felix, or something, an exchange student from England who was staying with the Pavuses for the summer. He hadn’t actually introduced himself; he wondered as he boy came back, clutching a little ziploc baggie of ice to his chest, if that had been an oversight.

“Thanks,” he said, spinning around on his bum in the dirt as Felix crouched beside him. “It’s Felix, right?”

“Yes,” Felix answered quietly, almost shyly. He handed over the baggie and Carver let out a sigh of relief as the ice soothed the throbbing of his thumb. “And you’re Carver. I brought a plaster, too.”

Carver accepted the little slip of wax paper and examined it. Blue’s Clues bandaids, courtesy of Alistair’s mom. Cute. “How d'you know my name?”

Felix shrugged. “I know everyone’s name. It’s not hard. No one really talks to me, so I just watch and listen. You pick things up.”

“I’m talking to you now,” Carver said, feeling bad. Maybe he’d followed everyone’s cues and avoided talking or looking at the New Kid on the long drive in Mr. Duncan’s 12-seater van, but it wasn’t his fault he was socially awkward.

“So you are,“ Felix said with a smile. It was a very nice smile, with very white teeth against the deep tan of his skin.

“You could just start talking to people, you know. About whatever, like you did with me. We’re a pretty chill bunch.”

Felix shrugged, smile fading. “I don’t really know anything about anyone, though. What if I accidentally offend someone?”

“The only way you could offend Alistair is if you insulted his hair,” Carver muttered. “But since you asked: my name is Carver Hawke, I’m fifteen, I live in Syracuse and I like snowboarding and video games. What about you?”

The smile is back, and Carver’s stomach does something flip-floppy. Shit. “I’m Felix Alexius, I’m fourteen, I live in London and I like maths.”

“I’m sorry, you like what?”

“Maths? Mathematics? You know, like algebra and trig and things.”

“Oh. I’m, uh, not morally opposed to math. That’s about the best I can do.”

Felix let out a peal of laughter. “That’s all right. American schools are really terrible about teaching it, I think.” He leaned in a little closer, peering at Carver’s hand. “How’s the wound?”

“Oh, uh, it’s fine. I kind of forgot about it, actually.”

“Let me put the plaster on for you.”

“Bandaid,” Carver corrected absently as Felix handled him with a gentle touch. “That’s what we call them here.”

“That word makes no sense,” Felix decided. His brow furrowed in concentration as he taped it around Carver’s thumb. “There, how’s that?”

“You gonna kiss it better?” Carver asked, only half-joking.

A deep crimson flush stole over Felix’s cheeks. “Um… do you want me to?”

Carver grinned and nudged him. “Maybe later. Come on, they’re building the campfire, and that means dinner.”

* * *

After s’mores had been eaten and songs had been sung, some more riotously than others, Carver volunteered to take the dishes to the creek for washing. Felix tagged along. The water was ice-cold and it felt good on Carver’s busted thumb, and before long they were playing more than washing, splashing each other and sniggering when Felix dropped a fork into the creekbed and had to wade in, pants rolled up above his knees and his toes turning pink in the cold. When he came back he threw the fork at Carver, where it bounced harmlessly off his chest and fell to the mossy bank, forlorn. 

“Nice shot,” Carver deadpanned, scooping it up and tossing it in with the rest. “Is your aim always so impeccable?”

“Only where it counts.” His face was placidly innocent, but Carver didn’t trust it for a second. “C’mere, let me show you.”

Carver edged his way, cautious. “You’re not going to toss me in the river, are you?”

“Swear I’m not. Come on.” Felix took hold of Carver’s wrist, and his touch burned where his fingers made contact with bare skin. As Carver watched, tongue-tied, Felix brought his injured hand up and placed a feather-light kiss on the swiftly-melting band-aid still wrapped around his thumb. “See?”

Carver coughed, pink and prickling with warmth. “I think you missed, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” Carver glanced over his shoulder quickly, just to double-check, but everyone was busy poking the fire and trying to set themselves ablaze under Mr. Duncan’s benevolent eye. When he looked back, Felix was watching him closely, blushing a little himself and gnawing anxiously on his lower lip. Before he could lose his nerve, Carver leaned in and bumped their lips together quickly. 

Felix’s face transformed instantly into a wide smile. “Oh, hello.”

Carver winced. “That was terrible, wasn’t it.” But Felix was still hanging onto his wrist, so it couldn’t have been _that_  bad.

“Have you ever been kissed before?” Felix wondered, not sounding at all judgmental, only curious.

“Er, no.”

“Well come here, then. Let me show you.” Felix dropped his arm but only to reach out and take his face between both palms. They were still damp and cold from the washing, and a shiver worked its way down Carver’s spine as he leaned in. “Close your eyes.”

In the dark, every sensation was magnified. He could smell woodsmoke and moss, and the little leaves of mint Felix had found and chewed after dinner. He could hear Felix breathing, a little heavy but not as heavy as Carver’s own, and then he could feel soft lips on his, not pursed but warm and relaxed, nudging his in a friendly sort of way before retreating. When Carver jutted his chin out to follow, Felix chuckled and kissed him again. This time Carver found his lower lip held hostage as Felix drew it slightly into his mouth. Mint and toasted marshmallow bloomed against his tongue, and when he pressed forward for a better taste, he was met with another tongue, soft and slick. 

He gasped, a little bit loudly, and Felix drew back with concern in his chocolate-brown eyes. “All right?”

“Um. Yeah.” His clothes felt too tight, suddenly, and his heart was racing in his chest. “That was amazing.”

Felix grinned, and his thumb traced a hypnotizing circle on Carver’s cheek. “Thanks. We should, um, probably get back to the campfire, but… maybe we could do this again?” His lower lip was shiny, and Carver’s eyes were drawn to it; the realization that _his tongue_  put that damp patch there felt like a kick in the chest. 

“Yes please,” he said, perhaps a little too eagerly. But Felix only smiled at him, bashful, and leaned in for another quick peck. 

Carver’s heart flip-flopped some more, all the way back to the fire. 


	3. whisper to me in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Things you said when I was (you were) sick](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/138178154520/38-things-you-said-when-i-was-you-were-sick), prompted by [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com).

“Feeeeeeeeeeeee. Fee. Mmfgh.” 

Felix reaches over absentmindedly and strokes Carver’s feverish temple. “Hush, you. You’ll call the darkspawn down with all your fussing.” He keeps his voice level, unaffected, and it takes more effort than it should. He’s so tired. No one else to take the watch, no way to move Carver by himself, so he’s stuck like this—buried underground, tunnels stretching endlessly in either direction, and no one who knows precisely where they are. 

Carver’s breath is raspy in his chest, awful and rattling when he sleeps and rough as sandpaper now, his fingers weak and fumbling against Felix’s thigh where his head is resting. “Fee. You still there?”

“Yes, darling, I’m still here. I promised I wouldn’t leave you, didn’t I?”

“Mmm.” Carver is silent for a while, and for a moment Felix thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then, slowly and croaky with illness, he speaks. “You called me darling.”

Felix winces in the dark. “Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Carver whispers. “You—not if you don’t mean it, you shouldn’t…”

“Shhh, Carv.” Fingers in Carver’s sweat-damp hair, combing gently against his hot scalp. “Quiet. Conserve your energy. When you feel well enough we’re going to try walking again for awhile.”

“Don’t wanna walk.” Carver curls closer around his leg, face pressed into his thigh—he can feel the burning of his face, the fever sinking deep in his bones and blazing through the fragile shell of his mortal flesh, and it scares him more than anything. More than the Joining. More than this mission, diving deep into the hollow shell beneath Amaranthine in search of some relic Warden-Commander Howe seemed certain was buried there. Felix curses him bitterly for a moment, and then feels bad. Nathaniel couldn’t have foreseen this. The ambush, the blade to the stomach, the wound turning septic before Felix realized and turned them back toward the surface. Carver clutches the edge of his greave, shaking a little. “Just stay here for a little while. Just a little while longer with you.”

“I told you I wouldn’t leave,” Felix soothes. When Carver falls back to sleep, though, he might have to. They can’t go on like this—resting for hours on end, walking a few long, dragging minutes before Carver’s hard-won strength bleeds away again. He needs to go for help. If only he could bear to leave him alone, here in the dark with no one to pet his hair and remind him that light still lives above the surface of the ground. 

“Ever?” Carver’s voice is a pale shade of its usual self-assured rumble, more of a needy whine. “Fee, promise me. I can’t lose you.”

“You idiot,” Felix sighs, and he bends to kiss his sweaty brow. “I love you, Carver, of course I won’t ever leave you. I’m with you ‘til the day my Calling takes me. I swear it.”

Carver exhales shakily, the taut curve of his body relaxing just a little. “Love you too, Fee. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.” Felix pets him a little while longer, watching by the fading glow of his magelight as Carver falls back to sleep. “I won’t forget, my darling. But you might.” 

When he’s sure Carver is out, he sinks a little sleeping magic into him and rolls him fully onto the hard-packed earth of the tunnel floor. A few hastily-etched wards are all he can spare; he scrambles to his feet and hikes his pack higher on his shoulders, turning his face toward the surface. It’s at least two days steady walking, but he knows he needs to make it in less, or none of his promises will matter.

“Hang on, Carver. Don’t forget what I told you. Don’t forget I love you.”


	4. the same old story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Yeah, yeah, I know how this goes. I'll grab my clothes and get out of here,"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/138416837300/yeah-yeah-i-know-how-this-goes-ill-grab-my) prompted by [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com).

Felix wakes in a haze. His tongue feels like a dry sock sitting against his palate, and his body is weirdly sore in a way he doesn’t associate with conventional exercise: hips, thighs… arse. Huh. Hungover, sore; the only remaining question is…

“What the _Void_ happened last night?”

Oh, Maker. He knows that voice. It belongs not to a stranger, the best case he could hope for in this scenario, but to his best friend and fellow Warden-Corporal, Ser Carver Hawke. 

Felix is in _such_ deep shit. 

Reluctantly, he pulls the blankets down and looks over the top. On the other side of the narrow regulation mattress—barely wide enough for two people to lay beside each other comfortably—is Carver, buck naked and without any kind of covering at all. Unless you count bite marks and bruises as “covering.” He’s currently on his belly facing away from Felix, but as he props himself up Felix can see the livid marks on his throat and shoulders, the scratches on his biceps and down his muscled back, the tousled hair and bleary eyes… eyes that fasten suddenly on Felix, blowing wide with panic when he realizes just _who_ he’s sharing a bed with.

“Well fuck,” Carver mumbles, and rubs his face briskly as if trying to scrub the image of a naked, blanket-bundled Felix from his retinas. Felix swallows hard and flips the blankets back up.

 _What the **fuck** were you thinking, Alexius? _The night comes back to him in bits and pieces, snatches of color and sound that tumble past him like liquor through a snifter full of ice: Carver’s hazy smile, his blue eyes made bluer by the collar of his regulation Warden jacket; his breath on Felix’s ear, smelling of whiskey and drunken promises; Carver’s body bared to him completely, hands hungry, voice deep and guttural in his chest as Felix rode him, as Felix laid on his belly and begged for Carver’s cock, Carver’s mouth, Carver’s fingers. Heat floods over him, part memory, part shame, and he feels the mattress shift and hears Carver’s feet thunk against the concrete floor.

“Yeah, yeah, I know how this goes,” he mutters, muffled by the blankets over Felix’s head. “I’ll grab my clothes and get out of here.”

Does he sound… _disappointed_? Felix flips the covers back down and sits up. _Ouch_. Mistake. “Carver, wait. Just… hang on.”

Carver pauses in the middle of pulling on his trousers, the off-duty ones that make his arse look fantastic. _Not that his arse doesn’t look fantastic without anything on, because it does. Which I know now. Intimately. Oh Maker._ Carver looks over his shoulder but doesn’t quite make eye contact. “What?”

“Can you… just… wait for two seconds while I… get my head together. Ugh.” He massages his temples and longs for a glass of water. “Andraste’s flaming pyre what was I _drinking_?”

“Don’t hold me to it,” Carver says, cautiously amused, “but I distinctly remember at least three shots of Antivan dragonfire whiskey. Each.”

Felix licks his dry lips with his dry tongue, to no avail. Eurgh. “Okay. So… I need water. And a piss. And more sleep, in that order. But I would really… really like it if you stayed. Um.” He looks at his hands resting limply in his lap, and then at Carver, who is now facing him and staring like he’s Andraste reborn. He squints at him. “Is that okay? I mean, we can also do the… forgetting everything that happened last night thing. What happens in the shitty outpost bunker stays in the shitty outpost bunker, but I’d…”

_Carver’s breath on the back of his neck, fingers digging deep into Felix’s hips until they bruise, the resonant groans of ecstasy as he fucks him over and over and over again—he’s lost track of how many times he’s cum but it’s not enough, will never be enough, he **needs** this, needs **him** …_

Felix shudders and rubs the grit from his eyes. “I’d really like to not forget.”

There’s the sound of a zip being pulled, and his heart sinks. He’s leaving. Then cloth rustles, and Carver is kicking off his jeans and walking to the closet-sized bathroom in nothing but his skivvies. Felix waits with bated breath. Water runs briefly, followed by the sound of urine hitting the toilet bowl and the guttural hiss of the flush, and Carver returns with two paper cups of water. One he hands to Felix, who gulps thirstily; the other he drains, throat bobbing deliciously, and he chucks it without looking toward the wastebin before climbing back into bed. Felix doesn’t have the heart to tell him he missed.

“I’d like to not forget, too,” he rumbles, forcibly appropriating the blankets so that they’re equally distributed between the two of them. One muscular arm scoops around Felix and he curls into it, hands seeking warm, smooth flesh eagerly.

“My memory is kind of patchy,” he whispers into Carver’s neck. “Maybe we can try and fix that.”

“Mmm. I like the sound of that.” Carver snakes a hand down to squeeze his bare arse, and he squeaks. “Piss first,” Carver laughs, and pushes him gently out of bed. He flops back on the pillows, arms folded behind his head and blankets pooling around his waist; Felix gets stuck staring at his chest and Carver grins, tired but impish, nudging him away with one foot. “I’ll still be here when you come back.”

“I’m holding you to it,” Felix rasps, and he makes a break for the bathroom. _He’s staying. Sweet, sweet Maker, he’s actually staying._

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more eager to get back into bed.


	5. hide under my bed until the danger is past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Get out, get out, get out, get out!"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/138448171655/prompting-u-for-fever-bc-im-mean-get-out-get) prompted by the lovely [crotchner](crotchner.tumblr.com).

“Mmmm… yeah, fuck, that’s perfect, baby. Unnghhh, fuck.”

Carver bites a grin into the back of Felix’s neck and snaps his hips forward harder, loving the garbled evidence of his pleasure. Felix can never shut up during sex—it’s one of Carver’s favorite things about him. They haven’t been together long, but he’s already got a list of his favorite things about Felix. The adorable little furrow in his brow when he’s bent over homework late at night; the peculiar jut of his hipbones that show whenever he stretches and the hem of his shirt rides up a few inches; the feel of his surprisingly plush arse against Carver’s morning stiffy on weekends when they have nothing to do but fuck each other silly (because Felix has dragged Carver into his good habits and makes him do homework on Friday nights instead of other, more interesting pursuits).

Right now, of course, it’s a little bit different. It’s spring break, and Felix has been given permission by his father to use the penthouse, which means it’s them and only them for an entire glorious week. Which means he doesn’t have to be gentle, or careful, or keep from making too much noise—no, they can holler as loud as they want, fuck as loud as they’ve always wanted to but haven’t had a chance to in their dorm room, and it’s perfect. Amazing. Felix is amazing.

“You’re amazing,” he gasps, hips driving harder—the slap of their skin echoes like applause from wall to wall as they rut and scramble on the plush faux fur duvet, somehow not flung from the king-sized bed in their eagerness. His fingers bite harder into Felix’s hips and he feels _so damn good_ ; so hot and tight, almost too slippery, slippery enough to drip on the duvet and slick Fee’s inner thighs until they gleam. “You’re so, so amazing, so gorgeous, fucking _Maker_ I can’t get enough of you.”

“Mmmm.” Felix turns his head in the pillow and smiles, bleary and soft in spite of their animalistic vigor. Carver can’t help it—he slows, the firing pistons of his hips becoming something softer, more undulating, and he bends and smears their mouths together clumsily. “Can’t get enough of you,” Felix breathes, and Carver’s eyelids prickle unexpectedly. Maker, how has he gone this long without admitting his feelings?

It seems like only yesterday they were first meeting in the freshman commons, both aimless and looking for a roommate that they won’t want to murder by the second week of classes. He never could have predicted that they’d be here only two years later: best friends, and now lovers, both of them eager to learn every intimate secret of the other’s body.

Their slower rhythm now allows that exploration. Carver strokes the center of Felix’s chest and down, dipping into his navel before finding his cock, sheathed in a condom only for the sake of the mess. Felix’s moans grow softer and more drawn out, his babbling turned to grunts and gasps and sweet sighs. Carver nuzzles the back of his neck and hums. “So good, sweetheart. Maker, yeah, _yeah_ …”

Downstairs, the front door closes. They both freeze—Felix’s entire spine turns to ice under him, and Carver tries to breathe a little quieter. Footsteps move through the apartment, growing louder, and then they can hear Mr. Alexius call out, “Felix? Anyone home?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Felix gasps, twisting like a slippery snake beneath him. He shoves at Carver ineffectually, maneuvering him to the edge of the bed. “Get out, get out, get out, get out!”

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to be home until later today!” Carver whispers, grabbing his clothes and hopping into them, but Felix is having none of it.

“No time! Just get under the bed, he’s almost—”

“Felix?”

“Just a minute, Dad! I’m… changing,” Felix calls, voice strangely high-pitched in his panic. Carver tries to scoot under the bed but the stupid minimalist modern frame is too low to the ground; he grabs a stray sock and ducks into the bathroom, hoping for the best as he huddles behind the shower curtain and tries not to breathe like he’s just run a marathon.

“Hi Dad,” Felix says, sounding obnoxiously perky. “Just got back from a run, was about to take a shower. I didn’t think you were going to be home so early in the day.”

“My flight got pushed up unexpectedly. That’s not a… problem, is it?” Mr. Alexius inquires. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Carver covers his face with his hands.

“Er, no. Not a problem. Not at all. Why would it be a problem?” Felix babbles. _Shut up, Fee, just shut up, you’re making it worse!_

“Well you did mention your gentleman friend would be spending some time here. Carver or something, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t want to interrupt any… quality time.”

“Oh, um… no, he—he’s not… here right now…”

Carver sighs and gives up. He flips on the bathroom light and opens the door, tugging on his shirt—it’s on backwards, but at least it’s on straight. Figuratively speaking. “I’m here, Mr. Alexius. Sorry about the, er, inconvenience.”

Felix is staring at him in horror, but his father only looks deeply entertained, barely hidden behind a veneer of polite interest. “Ah, Carver. Good to see you. I’m knackered, so you’ll have to excuse me, but perhaps you’ll join Felix and I for a late lunch? Perhaps in an hour or two?”

“Yes, sir. I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.” He nods, gives Felix an inscrutable look, and disappears again.

Felix collapses backwards on the bed and covers his face with his hands. He’s dressed in a pair of rumpled boxers and nothing else, and there are still red blotches all over him from their energetic lovemaking. “What a disaster.”

Carver snickers and crawls up beside him, stroking his belly like a cat until he curls up and turns into Carver’s arms. “Shh, it’s fine. He doesn’t give two fucks about us… fucking.”

“Ugh. Shut up, Hawke.” But when he pulls his hands away, he’s smiling. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can… you know…” He gestures vaguely below his waist.

Carver kisses the side of his face, then his lips, gently. “Come shower? Maybe I can… persuade you otherwise.”

“Doubtful,” Felix says, but he lets himself be pulled into the bathroom anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always happy to take prompts on my [tumblr](erebones.tumblr.com), and I often reblog otp ask memes, which is where most of these come from; or just drop by and say hi!


	6. hardly working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "director's cut" verion of an anonymous [prompt](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/139980758375/19-studying-in-a-dorm-room-while-the-roommate) for the 30 Day OTP challenge, which I may or may not actually do: '"Studying" in a dorm room while the roommate is out, Fever - bonus if the roommate comes back but the boys don't care and ignore them until they leave again.'

 

"And then you carry the four… perfect. Now you do the rest by yourself, it’s just like the last one we did.”

Carver scrubs his hair and bends over the page, so close his nose almost touches the paper. “This is stupid. This is  _grade school_  stuff. I signed up for this class because it was supposed to be  _easy_.”

“Statistics is a tricky beast,” Felix says consolingly. He watches Carver scribble for a little while, hesitate over his calculator, and then scribble some more. “But you’re doing well. I really think you’re starting to get it.”

Carver finishes the problem and looks up hopefully, a curl of hair flopping into his eyes. “Can I have a kiss now?”

Felix bites his lip to hide his smile. “One more, okay? Then we can take a break.”

Carver sighs but bends down to his work obediently. This one seems to be the most complicated word problem yet, but he wrestles with it, determined, and ten minutes later he circles his answer and sits back with a satisfied sigh. “There.  _Now_  can we take a break?”

“I suppose so.” Felix stacks his papers and pencils and calculator neatly on the desk and pushes away on the spare rolling chair, coasting across the floor to the bunk bed. “C’mere. You’ve earned it.”

Eager as a puppy, Carver bounds after him, following him down to the mattress. The sheets are fresh, at least, even if the comforter is shoved down around the foot and the pillow is a mashed-up shape half-shoved down between the mattress and the wall. Carver retrieves it conscientiously and bangs it back into shape. Then he flops down and Felix follows, snuggling in next to him, their noses just touching. 

“Hi,” Carver says. He feels big and clumsy next to Felix’s trim elegance, but his apprehension fades as his boyfriend wraps an arm around his solid waist.

“Hello there, handsome.” Felix smiles, a little pink in the face. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

“I–um, yeah. Yes. Definitely. I just wanted to stare at you for a little while first. Not in a creepy way! I just mean, er, you’re very nice to look at.” Maker, his cheeks are bright red, he can feel it. Felix doesn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you,” he says, almost shyly, and Carver doesn’t know why–he knows he’s bloody gorgeous. Or he should. Maybe Carver should tell him so more often, and not just think it. “You’re quite nice to look at, yourself.” He leans forward and brushes their lips together. 

Trying not to seem too eager–they’ve been dating for several weeks, now, but the kissing-while-horizontal thing is relatively new–Carver kisses back softly. One arm is tucked beneath his head and the pillow, and the other hand finds Felix’s waist tentatively. At the soft touch, Felix sighs and wriggles a little closer. Their shins brush, knees clacking briefly before Carver feels him slide a calf over one of his. His fingers tighten reflexively. Felix hums and his hand slides around, almost undetectable under the overwhelming heat of his mouth, playing with the hem of Carver’s tee shirt where it rides up in the back. 

Feeling a bit out of control, Carver eases the kiss back until they’re not kissing anymore, just resting their foreheads together, breathing in sync. “All right?” Felix whispers. 

“Yeah.” He’s whispering, too, even though he doesn’t know why–it’s late, and if Pax isn’t back by now he likely won’t be until morning. If he’s lucky. Perks of dating a boy: dorm curfew doesn’t apply. His sock feet curl against the sheets and he wants to push even closer, but he’s popping a stiffy already and he doesn’t know if Felix is ready for that level of… horniness. “You?”

“Yeah. Really, really all right.” Upon closer inspection, Felix’s eyes are dark and round, so dark he reckons they’re more pupil than iris. Carver grips his waist a little harder and rubs his thumb against the smooth, soft fabric. Felix hums. “Do you want to keep going?”

Carver’s heart stutters.  _Have I always breathed this loudly?_ “Um. Yeah. You mean…”

“I mean.” Felix licks his lips. “Shirts off?”

“Oh.”  _Dear sweet Maker, yes. Is this second base? Does that metaphor even apply with a boy?_ He doesn’t know the answer, but he doesn’t particularly care. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds… good.”

“Good.” 

They untangle themselves awkwardly, Carver trying to hide his hard-on with folded knees as he struggles out of his shirt in the cramped space. He’s pretty sure Felix sees everything anyway. But then Felix’s shirt comes off, too, and Carver doesn’t give a shit anymore about what he does or doesn’t see, because Felix is  _stunning_. He’s slim but not underdeveloped, with a little definition in his belly and a sprinkling of dark, dusty freckles across his collarbones. He reaches out and spreads his fingers across his rib cage, and his hand is ghostly pale against Felix’s warm Tevinter skin. 

“Yes,” Felix whispers, and his hands are on Carver, too, warm and curious. He’s overwhelmed with the need to kiss him again, so he does, and he thinks that there’s something more to it this time, a spark of energy that amplifies every touch and breath and sigh. 

Somehow they shift, until Felix is on his back and Carver laying against him, wanting so badly to push his leg between Felix’s thighs but not sure if it will be welcome. Until Felix makes a noise of impatience in his throat and grabs his hip, hauling him into that exact position. Carver whimpers and sucks on his tongue with more vigor, and Felix clutches at his hair, bucking up against the pressure.  _He’s hard, too,_  Carver thinks wildly, giddy with glee, and he pushes his thigh down, hands greedy and searching. His fingers glance off a nipple and Felix makes a small broken sound.

“Sorry,” Carver whispers, mortified, but Felix grabs his hand and puts it back, redder than a tomato.

“No, please. It feels good.”

“Oh.” He’d never thought to do that and now he feels silly. He rubs his thumb in a cautious circle and Felix sighs, chest arching into the pressure. 

“I want your mouth on me,” Felix breathes. Carver thinks he might pass out. 

“Maker, yeah. I want…” He stutters to a halt, but Felix hums encouragement, hands pulling at his hair, and he presses on. “I want to kiss you everywhere. Just… everywhere. Please?”

“Yes. Maker, please, anything you want.” He leans up, kissing him clumsily. “I love the feel of you against me.”

“Fuck,” falls out of his mouth. He buries his blush in Felix’s throat, and kisses it when Felix giggles. 

“Mmmm, I like the way you think. Maybe next time.”

Carver decides he loves kissing Felix everywhere. His skin is soft and smooth, and he tastes warm, like sunlight or the coals of a banked fire. Whimsical, Carver licks delicately at each nipple and scatters little pink marks all in between, finding the places that make Felix shudder or cry out. And he’s harder than ever, but it’s okay, because Felix is hard too, and when he squirms back up to kiss his panting mouth, their cocks brush together through their jeans and it’s the best thing Carver has ever felt. 

“Is it okay if I…”

“ _Yes_ , oh dear Maker…”

Carver tips his chin down to look between their bodies, watching as his hand forms around the shape of Felix’s cock under his clothes. He squeezes, blood throbbing in his temples and his pelvis. He’d always thought he’d be nervous, the first time, afraid of making the wrong move or saying the wrong thing, but being with Felix now is just as easy as ever. Familiar, even though he’s never touched another guy’s prick before, comfortable and warm. It feels like coming home. 

He’s got Felix’s fly unzipped and is petting his cock through his underwear when he hears a key scrabbling in the lock. He freezes. Under him Felix is still pliant, thighs sprawled as wide as they’ll go with his jeans tugged a little way down his hips, and for a minute Carver doesn’t think he’s heard. Then he looks at him, heavy-lidded, and smirks. “If you stop now I will never forgive you.”

Carver is on the verge of protesting when he remembers the times he’s walked in on Pax with his hand up Rue’s shirt, or Rue on her knees under the desk, and decides he doesn’t give a shit. He gives Felix’s cock a little squeeze and delights in the long, overwrought moan Felix gives in response. “Show-off,” he whispers as the door creaks open. He nibbles Felix’s ears and Felix gasps, mumbling  _oh fuck_  with perfect clarity. Carver hums and grinds against his hip, fumbling about a bit before getting his hand inside Felix’s briefs and around his bare cock. Felix  _wails_ , perhaps a little louder than deserved. 

The door snaps shut again and they pause. Carver tries not to giggle. “Is he gone?”

“Yeah.” Felix is panting, breaths wafting against his cheek. His cock is still in his hand. Experimental, Carver gives it a slow tug, letting it slide through his fist from base to tip. Felix’s mouth drops open and his head falls back against the pillow. “Ohhhh fuck. Carv…”

“Mm. Is it good?”

“You know it is.” Felix huffs and looks down, watching his own prick as Carver pumps it slowly, relishing the silky skin sliding so freely over the head and back again. “Maker… Oh, fuck, yeah. Now you, please, take your clothes off. I want to see.”

“Bossy,” Carver laughs, too giddy to care. He’s got Felix all to himself, now, all night to explore him, and tomorrow’s a weekend; they can sleep in, maybe get breakfast together and walk down to the water and kiss behind the boat house. He ducks his head and licks inside his mouth, and he tastes as sweet as ever. He’ll take his clothes off in a bit. Just a moment longer. 

“Caaaarv,” Felix whines. He turns his head away and Carver sucks a mark onto his throat. “Not fair.”

“’M sorry,” he mumbles against his neck. He wants to take his jeans off, he really does, it’s just… “I can’t take my hands off you.”

Felix’s hips curl up into Carver’s hand, and he can feel a little bit of slickness where the crook of his thumb passes over the tip. He loosens his grip to form a ring with his thumb and forefinger, fitting them snugly around the corona and jerking in short little pulls. Felix whimpers and fumbles at his jeans. “Please. Let me.”

Reluctantly, Carver leaves off, bracing himself up a little so that Felix can get his jeans unfastened and pushed down. His cock is rock-hard in his briefs, and he grunts with satisfaction when Felix rubs his open palm against it. “Take it out,” he whispers, prickling a little with embarrassment. _Did I really just say that?_

“Now who’s being bossy?” Felix teases, but he obeys, yanking the elastic waistband down and hooking it under his balls. He licks his lips, eyes flicking up at meet Carver’s as he reaches out and wraps a hand around his girth. Carver’s whole body shudders. He’s gotten himself off more times in the past few weeks than he can count, desperately trying to conjure the feeling of Felix’s hands on him, but none of it measures up to the real thing. Slowly he pumps him, with a little twist at the top that zings through him like an electric shock, and his other hand scrapes along his belly and up to his chest, petting the little bit of hair that has belatedly started growing there.

“Can I kiss you again?” Carver asks, breathless.

For answer, Felix tips his chin up and purses his lips. Snickering, Carver pecks him once, quickly, and comes back when Felix makes an irritable noise. His body feels like it’s on fire, blood pounding through him—he’s not nervous at all, anymore, when he finally tugs Felix’s hands away and lays between his legs. Their cocks line up perfectly after a bit of wriggling, and Felix bites Carver’s lower lip in retaliation.

“Still good?” Carver whispers.

“Yeah. Really, really good.” Felix grins, but it breaks, brow furrowing and mouth dropping open as Carver ruts their hips together. Watching his face transform with pleasure is almost as good as the pleasure itself. Carver can’t decide what part he loves more: the complete openness of Felix’s expression, or the press of their cocks together, a little rough with nothing but their skin and their precum to ease the way, but perfect all the same. _Next time I’ll be more prepared,_ he thinks, and he busies himself with more kisses.

It doesn’t take long at all, and maybe he should be embarrassed, but Felix is just as far gone. He drags Carver down, demanding the full weight of his body against him, and their hips judder and grind together as they kiss, sloppy, hands grasping at every part of each other they can reach. Carver feels himself getting close and he tears himself away, mouth to Felix’s temple instead as he rocks with more urgency, breaths puffing hot into the pillow. Felix grabs his ass under his briefs and arches his head back, face and chest bright pink and a blissful smile flickering in the corners of his mouth; it’s more than he can take. With a groan that coils deeply in his lungs, he pushes his hips forward and cums hard.

When he’s got his breath back, Felix’s belly is a mess and he’s quivering, right on the brink. With mumbled, slapdash apologies, he curls his fist around Felix’s cock and works it smoothly, focusing on the head—Felix arches and shouts, fingers white-knuckled in the sheets as he spurts cum nearly up to his chin. A single drop pearls on his collarbone, threatening to slide down onto the pillow. Without thinking, Carver darts forward and licks it up, and feels his cock twitch again in his hand.

“Fuuuuuck,” Felix groans, body going soft and pliable. “Maker, Carver…”

“Was it okay?” Carver whispers, feeling silly—the evidence is all over his hand and Felix’s stomach. As an afterthought, he licks the tip of a finger. Felix stares at him a moment before his eyes flutter shut and he slumps against the sheets.

“ _Was it okay_. Maker’s tears, Carver, it was amazing. You—fuck—just come here. Please. And for the love of Andraste, take your clothes off.”

He feels clumsy and shaky in the wake of his orgasm, but he manages to kick free of his jeans and briefs and help Felix out of his. He snags his own underwear to wipe them both down and succumbs to Felix’s grasping hands, cuddling down beside him. “Are you cold?” he asks anxiously. “I can get the comforter—”

“You can stay right here and cuddle,” Felix tells him, eyes still closed. One cracks open, and he smiles. “And maybe you could kiss me, if you wanted.”

“I always want,” he admits, touching a thumb to the smooth curve of his cheek. “And I’ll never stop.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Felix tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him down, tongue sliding out to lap at his. “Mmm. Yes, I think I’ll keep you.”

Carver blushes and pushes his face into Felix’s neck, shivering at the slow stroke of fingers against his scalp. He decides that he’s happy to be kept.


	7. the valley of the shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com)'s [prompt](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140049262885/to-be-low-key-evil-what-did-the-doctors-say), "What did the doctors say?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for slight gore, nothing super gross.

 

Felix stands outside the Warden Commander’s room and wrings his hands, listening for the slightest sound. All he can hear are murmurs. The healers conferring, debating what they already know. He turns on his heel and walks a few paces. Turns again, walks. Turns. Slams his fist into the wall. _Maker take them!_

The door creaks open behind him and he whirls to see Bethany standing there, already pale against her dark Enchanter’s robes, now made ashen with worry and sleeplessness. She steps into the hall and he comes to meet her, taking her hands. “Bethany. What did the healers say? Is he going to be all right?”

“They’re going to have to remove it,” she whispers. “Before infection sets in. They’re going to do it now.”

Felix’s belly clenches cold with fear. “Can I see him? Before?”

“You have a moment or two. Be quick.”

He leaves her behind in the hall and enters the room. There are two healers in attendance, one a Warden, the other a specialist from the nearest Circle who had ridden through the night to Amaranthine to lend her expertise. They are busy preparing their tools and incantations, and they wave him near the bed where Carver lies, prone, stripped to the waist with the coverlet folded back around his ribs. His face is still a bit of a wreck, even with the wadded bandages packed carefully to his ruined left eye: all purple-black with bruising on one side, and his cheek swollen with an angry red scar, still fresh from healing the day before. His right eye is shut, but when Felix touches his arm gently, it opens, drowsy, and meanders the room until it lands on him. His cracked lips part as if to speak.

“Shh, don’t tax yourself, love,” Felix says quietly, taking hold of his hand and stroking. “I’m here. I’ll be just outside, and I’ll come in right after, all right? You’re going to be okay.”

Carver’s eye slides shut. “I’m not…”

He swallows. “Not what, darling?”

“Brave enough.” The words are whispered, forced out through gritted teeth. Felix is amazed he’s able to speak at all with the amount of potions he’s been given just to numb the pain. He leans down a little closer so Carver won’t have to strain to make himself heard.

“That’s not true. You’re the bravest man I know. My hawk.” He brings Carver’s knuckles to his mouth, scabbed over now and wrapped in light linen. “Who else could survive this but you?”

Carver takes a labored breath. “I won’t be able to fight, Fee. I’ll be helpless. How can I… lead these people when I can’t even… lift a sword?”

“You will lift a sword again,” Felix tells him sternly. “And swing one with just as much skill as you had before, I have no doubt. It will take work, and determination, but those things I know you have in spades.”

“Oh, Felix.” His mouth pulls in a taut, strained smile, and Felix touches the uninjured side of his face, desperate for some kind of contact. “Have I told you that I love you?”

“A few times, perhaps.”

“Well I do.” The watery blue of his right eye turns to silver steel, and his fingers tighten around Felix’s. “I love you. And you’d best get used to hearing it, because I’m not ever going to stop.”

“Ser? I’m sorry, but we must begin the procedure as quickly as possible.”

Felix glances over his shoulder and nods, then looks back to his lover. “I’ll hold you to that,” he whispers. He kisses his brow as lightly as he can and pulls away, resting Carver’s hand neatly on the coverlet at his side. “I love you.”

///

“I think it makes you look dashing.”

Carver snorts and turns his head away, but lying in bed doesn’t provide very many options for hiding a smile. Felix reaches out tenderly and touches his cheek. “I’m serious. They’re already singing songs about the _One-Eyed Warden of Amaranthine_ who saved the kingdom from darkspawn.”

Carver huffs. “It was hardly the whole kingdom.”

“Well, you know how these stories work. Always blowing everything out of proportion.”

“Hmm.” Carver looks back at him, his remaining blue eye steady and piercing as ever. “It may look dashing, but it itches something awful. Will it bother you, if I…”

“Bother me? Goodness, Carver, of course not. I saw it happen. I think I’ll survive.” He slips his thump under the strap of the eyepatch. “Do you want me to do it?”

Carver shrugs. “If you want. It’s not complicated.”

He sits up a little on the pillow, and Felix finds the catch, flipping it open with a little pressure in the right place. The strap goes slack, and he pulls the patch gently away from Carver’s face. Beneath is packed with cotton gauze, which he peels back carefully, wiping away the excess elfroot balm. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. It’s just… weird.” He turns his head again, but Felix catches his chin in his grip and holds him there. “Fee…”

“Look at me,” Felix says gently. “Please.”

Mouth set stubbornly, Carver meets his gaze. Felix observes his face carefully, expression neutral. In the week since the surgery, his wounds have healed considerably, leaving only a few new scars behind. Most noticeably, where his left eye used to be is now just skin, a bit sunken, marked with the seam of new skin growing into old. There wasn’t enough of his eyelids to salvage, so most of it is whatever the healers were able to piece together—it’s not pretty, but Felix isn’t disgusted or bothered by it. It’s just another part of Carver, now, another facet of the man he loves.

“Don’t worry,” he says, bending to kiss the arch of his left brow bone. “You’re still the most handsome man in Thedas to me.”

Carver huffs again, but he lets Felix kiss him, one hand tracing small circles on Felix’s thigh where he sits on the side of the bed. “Thank you,” he mumbles when they part. “I know it’s stupid, but I… was worried.”

“Carver.” Felix grabs his hand and holds it tightly, tucking it against his chest. “Don’t you remember your promise?”

Carver blinks his right eye, and the vestigial muscles in the left socket twitch slightly in tandem. “What promise?”

“You said, before the operation, that you would never stop telling me you loved me. How could I think less of a man who has sworn to love me for the rest of his days? How could I be anything but enamored of you? My darling man, there is nothing that could ever make me stop loving you. Eye or no eye.”

“Fee,” Carver chokes, and stops. He can’t seem to find any more words, and Felix doesn’t mind. He dips his chin and kisses Carver’s hand, each knuckle, the palm, the wrist.

“Yes, my hawk?”

Carver takes a deep breath and seems to calm himself. “I love you. Eternally.”

“And I you. And I will never leave you or forsake you, no matter how high the shadows may rise or how deep the valley grows.”

Carver frowns. “Is that… a verse?”

“Sort of. It’s not from a canonized stanza of the Chant, just a… a hymn, if you will. A poem. I don’t really know the proper word in Common.” He fidgets, a little embarrassed. “It sounds better in Tevene.”

“Say it for me?”

“The whole thing?”

“Yes. I’d like to hear it.”

Carver looks at him so hopefully that he can’t resist. He climbs onto the bed more fully, and damn what the healers say about it, sitting up against the headboard with Carver’s good side nestled in his lap. With his left hand, he pets the left side of Carver’s face very gently, light as a feather around the occipital bone, and pulls the old words out of his memory like the dredging of a deep, dark lake full of secrets.


	8. i'll keep you warm at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["What part of be quiet do you not understand?"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140231042760/what-part-of-be-quiet-do-you-not-understand) prompted by [professionallilbrocarverhawke](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com)!

“What part of _be quiet_ do you not understand?”

Felix flinches back from the War Table and dips his chin. “My apologies.” He glances across at Bethany, who is currently glaring at her brother and Commander, and Josie and Leliana, who are smothering him with twin looks of sympathy—though Leliana’s, perhaps, has a keener edge. He swallows the dagger in his throat and bows. “Inquisitor, if you’ll excuse me. I have duties elsewhere.”

“Of course, Felix.” Bethany smiles thinly at him, ignoring her twin’s warning growl. “Thank you very much for your input.”

Stepping out into the hall is like stepping into a breath of fresh air, free of the Commander’s scorn. Or perhaps that’s just the biting Frostback air blowing in from the hole in the wall. He steps up to the collapsed stonework and braces his hand against the jagged edge, leaning out over the drop. It’s a bit of a thrill, just enough to kick-start his adrenaline and flush some of the shame out of his system. Damn the Commander’s short temper, made shorter these days with the lyrium withdrawal. It’s Skyhold’s worst-kept secret. Felix tries to be considerate, but when he snaps at him in the middle of a meeting with the Inquisitor he finds there’s limits to his _consideration_ after all.

“Erm.” Behind him, someone clears their throat, and Felix has a dreading suspicion that he knows exactly who it is. He steps back from the edge and dusts his hands free of masonry dust.

“This is really quite shameful, you know,” he says without turning around. “Shouldn’t the Inquisition be taking care of things like this? I feel it sends the wrong sort of message to our allies when they have to walk down an exposed breezeway just to get to the council chambers.”

Behind him, the Commander shuffles his feet like a naughty child, boots scraping against the stone. “It’s on the list. There are a lot of things that need seeing to—we’ve hardly just arrived.”

“Still. A good first impression is essential, don’t you think?” He finally takes pity and turns around, one hand braced discretely on the stone wall behind him for balance. Two weeks since they arrived at Skyhold—and two weeks since Enchanter Fiona was able to concoct a pseudo-Joining chalice to cure him of the Blight’s continuing effects—and his body is still recovering. It’s frustrating at times, but none more so than now, when he longs to appear hale and hearty before a man with whom he can never seem to stop butting heads.

Carver Hawke, ex-Templar and now Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forces, for once does not appear argumentative. His head is bowed slightly, making him appear at least humble if not small—an impossible task for the broad bear of a man, especially with the silver-grey fur of a Frostback catamount draped around his shoulders like a stole. With his hands behind his back and the tips of his ears bright pink with cold or embarrassment, he looks like a recalcitrant child preparing to be scolded. “Serrah Alexius,” he begins, but Felix cuts him off at the pass.

“Just Felix, please. Alexius is my father.”

“Er. Right. Serrah Felix. Please, allow me to extend my deepest apologies for the way I spoke to you just now. It was terribly rude of me, and belittling to you—”

“Yes, all right, calm yourself, Commander,” Felix sighs. “Apology accepted. Now if you don’t mind, I really do have other affairs to see to.”

“Is that why you were standing at the edge of a precipice? Seeing to _other affairs_?”

He frowns. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business, _Serrah Hawke_.”

“Ah. Yes. Right. Forgive me for intruding then, I’ll let you get on with your duties.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic that Felix has become familiar with since he joined the Inquisition and was welcomed into the inner circle of the Lady Herald’s advisors. “So much for manners, Bethany,” Carver mutters as he turns away, quiet enough that Felix knows that it wasn’t meant for his ears, but it snags his conscience anyway.

“Commander,” he blurts, just as Carver’s hand descends on the door. “I—forgive me. I have been short of temper lately.”

Carver turns, face colored with surprise. He has a terrible face for cards, that one. “You have nothing to apologize for. I was snappish, and you didn’t deserve it. The lyrium—” He cuts himself off and sighs. “But that’s no excuse.”

“Not an excuse, perhaps, but certainly a reason.” Felix pushes bravely away from the wall and holds out his hand. “Truce?”

Carver eyes his hand for a moment, almost as if expecting it to turn into a snake, and takes it slowly. His palm is hot as coals, and he grips Felix’s hand with more surprise than decorum. “Your hand is freezing!”

“They usually are,” Felix answers, more calmly than he feels. Carver hasn’t let go of his hand yet, and he can’t say he minds. “Northern blood, and the sickness… it’s left its mark.”

Carver purses his lips, dissatisfied, but there’s not much he can really do. “I see. Well I hope your _important duties_ are taking place somewhere warmer than a breezeway.”

Felix quirks a smile. “I believe that remains to be seen. Will I see you at dinner, my Lord Commander?”

“Just Carver, please,” he demurs quietly, and their hands finally part. Carver puts them immediately behind his back, leaving Felix to clasp his together in front of him to try and preserve some of the residual warmth. “And yes, I—will try to be there. My appetite hasn’t been much to speak of, lately.”

Felix regards him keenly. “Your sister worries for you.”

“I know. Which is why I will at least put in an appearance. Or try.” He hesitates, seeming reluctant to return to his work. Felix finds he’s sympathetic. “Good day, Felix.”

“Ser Carver.” He bows briefly, and waits until Carver has returned to the council chamber to make his halting way down the corridor, one hand braced against the wall for support.

He doesn’t think on their conversation again until after dinner, when he returns to his chambers to find extra blankets heaped at the foot of his bed and a mysterious bag sat on top. When he opens it, a few stones fall out, round and smooth and etched with the rune for heat. At the bottom of the bag is a scrap of paper with a quick note scrawled on it.

_To keep you warm during the cold Southern nights. Yours, C._

He’s willing to bet it stands for _Carver_ , and not _Commander_. Smiling, already a great deal warmer than he had been a few minutes ago thanks to the heat in his cheeks, Felix squeezes one of the stones in his hand until it warms him from the inside out. He’ll have to think of a proper thank-you for such a thoughtful gift. Perhaps Dorian will have a few ideas. Cheered, he sits at his writing desk and pens a letter, knowing Dorian of all people, with his intimate knowledge of Southern courting rituals thanks to a certain Ferelden Watch-Captain, will have the answer he seeks.

_Dorian, I need your advice. If I wished to thank a certain Commander for a very thoughtful gift with a gift of my own, what would you suggest? Your friend, Felix._

He’s folding it up to hand over to a courier, easy to find all over Skyhold at almost any hour of the day, and pauses. Considering the delicate nature of the request, perhaps this is one letter he’d best deliver personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://erebones.tumblr.com)!


	9. pleasure drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Strip tease](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140286531840/fever-prompt-strip-tease) prompted by [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com)

The house is dark when Carver gets home, and that in itself is odd. Felix is almost always home first on Fridays, already ensconced on the couch with the cat on his chest and the takeaway menus positioned just so on the kitchen table in case Carver doesn’t feel like cooking. He lets his bag slip off his shoulder and rests it beside the door, toeing off his shoes. “Fee? You home?”

There’s no immediate reply, but now that he thinks of it he can hear someone humming a few rooms away. Smiling, he hangs his coat up and pads quietly through the house to their bedroom.

At the top of the stairs he can see light slicing through the crack in the door, and he slows, blinking to clear his dazzled vision before peering through. Felix is inside, listening to something on low that he can’t quite make out the lyrics to, humming along as he makes the bed. Odd. Felix usually saves chores like that for the weekend when he can bully Carver into helping. Not that Carver needs much persuasion—a kiss or two usually does the trick. He smirks, watching his husband swaying from side to side as he stuffs the pillows into fresh cases. His hips are a thing of beauty, twisting to the rhythm that Carver can barely hear, and his jeans pull tight over his ass with every revolution. Carver licks his lower lip and leans against the door frame, just watching.

Felix tosses the pillows onto the window seat and makes sure the sheets are sitting straight before flinging the duvet into place. His shoulders bend and sway, wrists turning, and his feet do a little twisting side-step as he goes to retrieve the pillows. He spins, and Carver flinches back, afraid that he’s been caught out—but Felix goes right on by, seeming not to see him, and tosses the pillows onto the bed.

And then, sliding easily into the motion, his fingers find the hem of his shirt and toy with it as he dances, eyes closed. His profile is silhouetted against the huge old window with its semi-transparent white drapes, and Carver wonders if anyone can see him from outside, grinding his hips into thin air and head tipped back as his delectable pink lips whisper along to the inaudible lyrics. Carver’s breath grows ragged and he leans his forehead against the wall, one hand meandering down to adjust himself in his jeans. In their room, Felix rubs the palm of one hand up under his shirt and his entire body follows the movement, spine rippling in a wave. And then his shirt follows suit, pushed up his belly and pulled over his head in one smooth movement. Underneath is just warm brown skin, nipples standing upright in the cool air, and Carver stifles a groan.

On the other side of the door, Felix smiles, eyes still closed. “Are you going to stand there and stare all night, love, or are you going to come in?”

Caught. Biting back a smile, Carver slinks into the room and finds himself caught, pushed back with two hands on his chest until his legs hit the bed and he sits down abruptly. Felix grins, smoky-eyed.

“I wasn’t finished,” he murmurs, and hooks his thumbs into his jeans. Sitting this close, and at eye level, he’s unmistakably hard. Carver takes a breath and leans forward, saliva pooling in his mouth, but Felix puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head, tsking. “Ah, ah, ah. Patience.”

Carver sits back with a groan and watches Felix dance. He’s like a feast, lithe and half-dressed, fingers trailing up and down his own body and his eyes never leaving Carver’s face. Carver can feel himself flushing under that intense gaze, and Felix smiles, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. With a sultry smirk that could melt steel, Felix pops open the button on his jeans and slides the zip down. His hips twist back and forth and around, making little circles that are driving Carver mad. He squeezes the inside of his own thigh to keep from reaching out and touching as Felix slowly steps out of his jeans. Underneath are a pair of dark red boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to conceal his desire. With a broken sigh, Felix trails a hand down his belly and cups himself firmly, squeezing and massaging for a moment or two. Carver groans.

“Fuck, Fee, you’re gorgeous. And you bloody know it,” he adds, and is rewarded with a cheeky grin and a step forward.

“Legs together,” he instructs huskily. “Get your jeans open.”

Carver hastens to obey as Felix straddles his lap. He pulls his cock out of his pants and goes willingly when Felix presses him down to the bed, hands over his head and heart slamming against his ribs. “Like this?”

Felix licks his lips and leans down. “Perfect. Now touch me.”

Carver scrambles to obey, gripping Felix’s slim hips and moving up to rub his chest and thumb his nipples. Felix hums and kisses him as their hips grind together, slow and decadent like the melting point of chocolate. “What,” he gasps when they finally part, “is the occasion?”

“Mmm. No occasion. Just luck.” He nips Carver’s lower lip and reaches down to take his cock in hand. “Did you like the show?”

“Very much. God, you don’t even have to ask, you can feel how much you turn me on.” He bucks up to demonstrate, smearing precum on Felix’s belly. “How long did you know I was there?”

“Since the beginning,” Felix admits. He ducks their foreheads together and bites his lower lip as Carver reaches down, groping him through his briefs. “Ngh. Fuck, that feels good.”

Carver grunts agreement and strains up for another kiss. “A shame you made the bed just to have us screw on it and mess it up.”

“Why do you think I made it in the first place?” Felix pants. “I wanted a romantic evening, clean sheets and all. There were candles too, but I, ahhhhh… god… I ran out of time.” He looks down, watching as Carver fists his cock inside his pants. The tip peeks out, flushed and beaded with fluid, and Carver grabs his hip with his free hand, coaxing him forward.

“Come here, darling, I want to suck your cock.”

Felix shivers. “As if I could say no to that.” He shuffles forward until he’s straddling Carver’s chest and grabs a pillow from further up the bed, propping his head up. “How’s that? Comfortable?”

“Perfect.” He licks the tip of Felix’s cock and grabs his thighs. “What else did you have planned? Tell me.”

Felix looks down with dark eyes as Carver takes the head into his mouth, clearly struggling to stay on topic. “I… um… I had some things delivered—food, I mean. For whenever we want. And there’s champagne chilling in the sink. There’s no special occasion, I just… mmmmm… I just felt like doing something special.”

Carver pulls off with a wet pop and licks his lips. “Was our sex life getting boring?”

“No, not at all! I like our sex life.”

“It’s not too… married?”

“We _are_ married,” Felix reminds him dryly, tugging on his own cock in the absence of Carver’s mouth. Carver surges up to suck him in again and Felix lets him with a little sigh. “Mm. I just wanted to do something romantic for you. For us. Just because. Is that all right?”

For answer, Carver leans forward and gulps, and Felix’s cock slides down his throat. He hasn’t done that in a while and he has to pull back before he chokes, but a few more attempts and he’ll get the right rhythm. In the meantime he plays with the head, tongue flicking against his frenulum and sliding under the foreskin as he coats Felix’s cock with saliva.

“Fuck,” Felix bites out, and Carver leans forward again, coughing a little but pressing forward determinedly. “God, look at you. Look at you gagging on my cock.”

Which only makes him more determined. He swallows him down until his throat is sore and he’s drooled enough that Felix’s cock is slick and slippery, and sags back on the pillow with a sigh. Felix leans down and kisses him immediately, rutting against his stomach and fingers digging deep enough into his shoulders to leave bruises.

“I’m close,” he whispers, shuddering when Carver’s hand closes around him. “Oh, god…”

“Come on me, baby. I wanna see you.”

Felix screws up his face and cries out, muffled in Carver’s shoulder as his cock spits out cum onto Carver’s shirt. He catches the last few drips on his thumb and brings it to his mouth to taste. Felix shudders again. “Not fair.”

“Mmm. What’s not fair?”

“How unbelievably sexy  you look licking my cum off your fingers.”

Carver grins and grabs his hips, sliding him back just far enough that his cock nudges up against Felix’s backside. “I can think of a few ways to make it up to you.”


	10. you resurrect me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Followup to [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6038662/chapters/13846426), for [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com).

Carver wakes with a start. His mouth is drier than parchment and his heart beats sluggishly inside him, forcing the poison of his injury through his system. All around is dark and cold and drip-drip-dripping with the first traces of Blight. He flops his arm out—takes more effort than it should—and meets only bare rock and a smooth, round stone.

Confused, he picks it up. In the pitch black he can see the faintest trace of a protective rune. A hiccup of fear seizes his throat and he scrambles for more. Two, three, six in all. All etched shallowly with wards of safekeeping in Felix’s steady hand. But no Felix.

He can’t move far, can barely drag his body a handful of feet before the burning in his gut overwhelms him. So instead, he screams. He shouts for Felix so long that his voice turns to dust and the name loses all sense of meaning, and that’s worse. So he stops, listening to his own breathing in the dark. _They took him. Those fucking spawn came and took him away from me, and didn’t even have the decency to kill me first._

After a little while, sense reasserts itself. Whatever happened to him, Felix had time to leave the wards behind, and now that he thinks about it, he can taste the cool tingle of a sleep-spell just in the back of his raw and bloody throat, one of the few magicks that Felix has perfected in the Wardens’ service. Betrayal wells up in him, bitter. _He left me. How could he leave me behind. He promised me he wouldn’t._

That hurts worse than thinking he was stolen. Down here in the dark, where even the darkspawn don’t care to fashion their filthy bulbous traps and hovels, Felix suddenly becomes a monster. Holding him, petting him, calling him _darling_ —how could he forget something like that?—only to leave him behind. _I’m with you ’til the day my Calling takes me_. Bollocks to that. Carver is used to being second best, left behind, forgotten. But this slight cuts deeper.

The fever returns some time later—some indefinable time he can’t figure out how to trace. He counts his heartbeats at first, but they grow so erratic he loses count. He tries to drag himself up, but the pain is so great he falls back again, weeping, teeth grinding audibly together as he curses Felix for his worm’s heart. He spits blood onto the ground, he thinks, and with it the taste of lyrium. He sleeps.

He wakes to a hand on his face. _Darkspawn_ , he thinks, and he shrieks, lashing out with fingernails and snapping teeth, and his belly is only a dull ache for the adrenaline pumping through him, made bolder and blacker by the Blight. “Easy!” someone says, and there are hands binding him, pushing down his limbs like they’re so much water-weed, bendy and useless in the torrential current. He goes slack. When someone pries his mouth open and peels back his tongue, he doesn’t fight, and whatever foul concoction they’ve created slips down his throat and subdues him.

///

Everything is very bright. He squints against the hot pinkness of it, and realizes it’s his own eyelids, already shut. “Ugh.” Bloody inconvenient.

Footsteps, slightly arrhythmic, and then a cool, clean hand against his face. “Carver? Are you awake?”

Felix. His chest seizes with fear, then anger, then calm. “Why are you here,” he whispers. “Did they take you, too?”

“No one took me,” Felix says gently. “And no one took you, either. We’re back in Vigil’s Keep. You’re going to be all right.”

It takes some time, but eventually he is able to open his eyes. Felix is there, clear as day—brighter than the sunlight streaming through the curtains—his face all wrinkled with worry and his hands wringing themselves into knots on the coverlet. He’s been picking at his nails again. He _knows_ Carver hates that. “Stop it,” he mumbles, and shuts his eyes again. Opens them. “Why did you leave me?”

Felix’s mouth is a thin, pinched line, white around the edges as he sits back in his chair. “I had to. There was no other way—you couldn’t walk, and I couldn’t carry you.”

“So you left me behind.”

“No! Well, yes, but only so I could get help. Nathaniel went himself, and Oghren and a few others. They wouldn’t let me come,” he adds, small-voiced. He rubs his hands on his thighs, a nervous tic. “I wanted to. Truly. But they told me I would only slow them down.”

Carver’s brain is having a hard time putting the pieces together, like a child wrestling with a puzzle he can’t quite make fit. But there is one thing, one bright beacon, that stands out above the rest, and he cleaves to it like a drowning man clinging to a bit of driftwood in a gale. “You called me darling.”

Felix looks up from his lap, something like relief sewn into the crumpled edges of his smile. “That’s right.”

“You said…” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if I dreamed it or if it really happened. It’s all so…”

“Shh. Don’t think too hard, you silly man, you’ve only just woken up after almost dying.” Felix reaches out and picks his hand up off the coverlet, which Carver hadn’t even noticed was just lying there. The sudden touch is like a wildfire sparking in him—warmth ignites in his fingers and travels up his arm, spreading across his chest and down and everywhere. He takes a stuttering breath.

“Fee… I need to know.”

Felix shifts, sitting on the edge of the mattress with Carver’s hand cradled between both of his. “I love you,” he confesses, somewhat shamefaced. He doesn’t make eye contact, but Carver doesn’t mind. It’s too bright to see anyway. “I’m sorry I left, but I couldn’t let you die. I couldn’t have borne it.”

Carver closes his eyes. They’re prickling, but he doesn’t know why. “Stay with me? Please?”

“For as long as I can.” There comes a tender touch on the arch of his brow, and then soft lips against his temple. “I expect the healers will kick me out in a little while, but I’ll stay until then.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Carver sighs, but he’s too tired to elaborate. Anyway, Felix knows what he means. He knows he loves him too.


	11. if you're going to dump me, put some pants on first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else,"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140403490925/fever-prompt-im-going-to-need-you-to-put-on) from [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com).

 

Felix lets himself into his apartment, closes the door, turns around, and stops stock-still. From the kitchen, leaning bare-ass naked against the counter, Carver lifts his eyes from his phone. “What?”

“Why the _fuck_ are you still here?” Felix demands coldly. “I thought I told you to leave.”

“Yeah, you did. But I decided I wasn’t done.”

“Wasn’t done _what_? Being a complete asshole? Because you can feel free to do that _with pants on_ , from the other end of a cell phone where I don’t have to look at your stupid face.”

Deciding he’s not going to be cowed by his ex-boyfriend’s slovenly disregard for his feelings—and the _ex_ in front of that word is still so hard to think about, even though he’s been repeating it endlessly to himself for the past hour since it happened—Felix toes off his shoes with vigor and walks into the kitchen, ignoring Carver’s presence as loudly as possible. He opens the cupboards with a bang and starts pulling down everything that belongs to Carver: his weird gluten-free crackers, a jar of Nutella, his mom’s potholders he brought over when Felix set his last one on fire, a miniature stuffed football, a couple of plates, his ornamental stein that he insists on drinking beer from even though it’s a nightmare to clean by hand. He stacks all of it in a haphazard pile, _loudly_ , and moves around Carver as if he’s not even there to get at the coffee. Felix doesn’t drink the stuff unless it’s the sweet little espresso shots with the foamed milk on top the way Carver makes it, so he won’t be needing any of this anymore—the espresso maker, the steamer, the tiny ceramic cups Felix got him as a Christmas gift just two months ago. Their second Christmas together, their first in the same apartment. And now their last.

His eyelids are prickling hotly as he slams the cupboard shut again and nearly runs straight into Carver’s arms. He jumps back, nearly dropping one of the little cups, and averts his eyes to the floor. And then to the other side of the room, because that line of sight is too close to… something… for comfort.

“What?” he snaps, and he’s proud of the way his voice sounds like steel instead of marshmallow.

“Felix.” It’s the first word Carver has spoken in a while, and of _course_ he says his name like that _now_ , with his voice all tender and soft the way he did the first time he told Felix he loved him. The first and only time. “Please.”

“Please _what_? ‘Please’ doesn’t win any points unless you know what you’re apologizing _for_.”

“Felix.” Now he sounds a bit constipated, and it’s easier to bully his way around Carver’s bulk and dump the coffee supplies on the counter. “Just give me a chance to explain myself.”

“What’s to explain? You needed a roommate, so you dropped the L word and got what you wanted. Well now the cat’s out of the bag, so go run home to mommy and live in her basement until you get your shit together.” He swallows the lump in his throat and rummages around in the pantry for an empty box. There isn’t one big enough, so he just grabs a canvas bag and returns to the counter to start stuffing it with all of Carver’s _crap_ that’s been cluttering _his_ _kitchen_ for the past four months.

Carver sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You know I struggle with this, Fee. Words aren’t my strong suit.”

Felix whirls on him, fist coming down hard on the counter. The precarious pile shudders, and one of the little ceramic cups tumbles off and shatters on the ground. _Poetic._ “Listen,” he says, and he knows he’s visibly struggling to keep it together, but he presses on anyway. He fled the scene once this morning, a second time would just be embarrassing. “I would love to hear what you have to say. I would love for you to apologize with the perfect words, in the perfect order, and for it to _all make sense_. But this…” He waves his hand and looks away again, blushing. “I don’t know if this is some kind of manipulation or you just being the rude, boorish asshole you are, but I’m _really_ going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”

Carver looks down at himself in surprise. _He really did forget he wasn’t wearing clothes._ “Oh. Right. Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he’s gone, Felix slumps against the counter and covers his face with his hands. He hates this, hates everything about this. It’s not fair. Why should he fall hopelessly head over heels, and Carver just exist like a useless _lump_ without a single spark of affection or romance or—

“Fee?”

He rubs hastily at his eyes and stands up straight, carefully avoiding the splinters of ceramic littering the floor at his feet. Carver is hovering on the other side of the kitchen, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans and his moccasin slippers that he always leaves on Felix’s side of the bed. “What?”

“Stand still a minute, let me get this.” He’s build like a bear or a truck or some other huge, broad thing, but he moves lithely and with perfect grace as he fetches the broom and sweeps up the mess. Felix takes a few steps back, a knot twisting itself in his chest as he watches. The shirt is a bit snug on him—not obscenely so, but enough that Felix can see the flex of his arms as he sweeps up the ceramic shards into a dustpan and throws the lot into the garbage. When he’s done he dusts off his hands and puts them awkwardly in his pockets. Felix waits.

“Well?”

“I…” He sighs and tips his head back. “I do love you, Fee. It’s not just about the apartment.”

He sneers, but it’s a struggle. “That sounded really sincere, thank you.”

“It’s not—I just have a hard time saying it. I don’t know why. Well, I sort of do. This is my first serious long-term relationship, the first time I’ve… moved in with someone, and gotten all domestic and shit. And it’s great, it’s lovely, I just am… I’m learning. How to navigate… things.” He winces as if he knows how stupid that sounds. “What you said earlier is true—I _am_ scared. I’m scared of saying the wrong thing and fucking it up, so I didn’t say anything at all, and I guess that was worse.”

Felix takes a breath, and when Carver does volunteer anything more, he ventures forward with his words. “I thought you… didn’t care, anymore. I just feel like I’ve been falling more in love with you every day, and meanwhile you just care about—about sharing the rent and having someone to fuck sometimes.”

Carver winces and stares at the ground. “God, I’ve screwed this up, haven’t I.”

“Maybe a little.” The crack in Felix’s chest feels like it’s starting to knit itself back together, slowly at first but gaining speed. “What—what do you need from me, to make it easier?”

Carver looks up at him, and the awe and gratefulness in his face is almost too much to bear. “You mean you forgive me?”

“One step at a time,” Felix says tartly, but—

“Fuck that,” Carver says. He takes all the steps at once, coming across the kitchen in a few long strides and taking Felix into his arms. Felix knows he should resist, should put up some kind of boundary to keep himself from getting hurt, but leaning against Carver’s chest and letting him kiss his hair feels too damn good. “Be patient with me,” he whispers, cradling Felix’s jaw in one hand. “Please. I’ll try harder. I’ll be better. I want to be better for you.”

The crack in his chest pulls tight, swollen with so much affection he can barely feel it. “I want you to tell me what you’re feeling,” he whispers, fingers drawing the back of his shirt tight. “I want to know when you’re scared, so we can work it out together instead of—of me being stupid and impatient and losing my temper, and—”

“All right, easy,” Carver says, and it’s a bone-deep rumble that he can feel through his entire body. “We’re gonna be okay. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Felix sniffs and tips his chin up, a silent request. Smiling, Carver bends down and fulfills it.


	12. your wish is my command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“It does not hurt that bad. Don’t worry,"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140460560345/it-does-not-hurt-that-bad-dont-worry-fever) for [professionallilbrocarverhawke](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com) <3

Felix hisses through his teeth, even though he doesn’t mean to. Carver offers a lopsided grin and staggers fully into the room, braced against his walking stick for support. “It doesn’t hurt that bad,” he says, though his body fairly creaks as he lowers himself to the desk chair with a grunt and a sigh. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”

“Maker, Carver, you’re bleeding. Badly.”

“It looks worse than it is. Head wounds bleed a lot.” Still, he tips his head back and allows Felix to examine him, unconcerned with the dried blood caking to his face from the punctured stitches in his left eye socket. “The healer on duty already took a look, she said I’ll be fine and to sit down for a bit.”

“I should think so. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?” Felix asks, pouring water from the pitcher on the night stand into a bowl and wetting a soft cloth thoroughly. 

“Positive, love,” Carver says. He closes his eye for the cloth, and Felix wipes tenderly at the gore until he looks more like himself. “There. Good as new.”

Felix examines the socket, not entirely convinced, but aside from a little tearing it looks all right. He gets out the pot of elfroot balm and smears it on anyway, just in case. “Do you want the patch back on?”

“I want you to come here,” Carver answers slyly. A hand materializes on his rump and Felix jumps back with a little yelp of surprise.

“I _am_ here, you idiot,” he mumbles, and turns to put away the balm. When he comes back, Carver is pouting, slouching back in the chair with his walking stick propped against the desk. Felix puts his hands on his hips. “ _What_?”

“I’m not made of spun glass, you know,” Carver says reproachfully. He’s got a strange expression on his face like he’s trying hard to make light of it, but there’s a deeper insecurity lingering underneath. “I’m finally back in the training ring and all I get for my trouble is a bit of playing nursemaid?”

Felix sighs and comes closer, leaning up against the desk. Carver leans against him immediately and he combs his hand through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. I just worry about hurting you—and I don’t just mean your eye. You were badly hurt everywhere, Carver. You still have trouble walking without assistance.” He takes the cane in his hand, smooth and beautifully crafted out of dark oak, with a dark counterweight stone at the top that Felix has infused with charms for balance and clarity.

“Only when I overexert myself,” Carver sniffs, leaning against Felix’s hip. “I don’t meant to sound ungrateful—you’ve done so much for me and for the Keep, you’ve all but stepped into my shoes for the last month or so. It’s just…”

“Just?” Felix prompts.

“I miss you,” Carver confesses. “The feel of your skin. The smell of you first thing in the morning. I know you’ve been busy, and I feel as if I’ve been sitting on my arse doing nothing for bloody ages, but… d’you think you could maybe… wake me before you get out of bed tomorrow? Or  have dinner with me sometimes?”

Felix’s stomach twists with guilt. He’s been trying so hard to make Carver feel like he doesn’t have to strain himself, like he can just relax, that he’s hardly seen hide or hair of him for days. Weeks, even. They sleep beside one another at night, but Carver is usually drowsy in the evenings with medication, and dead to the world when Felix rises with the dawn to start his day. He dips down and presses his nose to Carver’s hair. It smells of sweat and sunshine, like the training yard with all its dust and clangor, and he’s overwhelmed with a sharp pang of nostalgia. Carver’s right. It’s been too long.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says quietly. “I was trying to take the pressure off of you, but I think it backfired. I’ll talk to Varel this evening and request that he take on more of my duties. Your duties.”

“ _Our_ duties,” Carver corrects. He looks up, and his smile is strained. “I don’t want to pressure you into anything—into spending more time with me, or… I know things are going to be different. It’s just the way it is. My leadership style is going to have to change, it stands to reason that our relationship—”

“Carver Malcolm Hawke. Don’t you dare say another bloody word.” He gets down on his knees because it’s the only way he can think to make himself the center of Carver’s attention, but once he’s there he realizes he always _was_ the center—it was Carver who wasn’t the center of _his_. “This is on me. I messed up. Please don’t think that I don’t want you anymore, because that’s not true. I want you more than ever. It’s just… really bloody exhausting running the Keep.” He buries a self-conscious laugh in Carver’s thigh. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t do it _alone_. That’s a good place to start.” Carver’s hand comes under his chin and lifts his head up. “Will you lie down with me, Felix?”

He feels his lips curling against Carver’s palm. “Is that a euphemism?”

“It can be,” Carver says, grinning. “It can be whatever you want. Oof.” He’s about as graceful as a sack of potatoes when Felix hauls him out of the chair, but it’s only a few steps to the washroom adjoining his private quarters. “What happened to lying down?”

“I’m not lying anywhere with you smelling like that,” Felix declares. He manhandles him out of his clothes, making sure to touch him discreetly as he does—a finger trailed down the front of his belly, a palm scraping his back, a tiny kiss to his navel when he kneels to work his trousers off his legs. Carver sways in place and braces himself against the side of the tub with a snort as it fills magically with water and billowing, fragrant stem.

“You like the way I smell.”

“Yes I do, but I also like it when I can kiss you and not taste sweat and leather and steel. Which sound nice in theory, but in practice aren’t very titillating.” He wrests him free of his boots. “Now get in, and _then_ we can lie down.”

“Promise?” Carver pouts, wobbling one leg at a time into the hot water. Felix starts on the fastenings of his own clothes and grins when Carver’s eye pops wide in appreciation.

“I swear it on the grave of all the darkspawn you blew up for king and country. Now get the soap, my hawk, and start scrubbing.”

“Where are you going?” Carver demands as he rummages in the chest of drawers on the other side of the room.

“Fetching the bath oils. Now stop complaining, and start sudsing.”

“Yes, Warden Commander.”

“Cheeky.” Felix deposits the vial of oil on the ledge by the tub and climbs in, sinking on his knees between Carver’s spread thighs. The water laps around his lover’s chest, darkening the hair there, and turning his scars an angry red. Felix leans in close and brushes a soft kiss against his lips. “What am I going to do with you, my hawk?”

“What you’ve always done, I expect,” Carver murmurs against his mouth. Another kiss, deep and clinging, and Felix shudders to feel Carver’s hand sliding down his chest and into the water. “Love me.”

“Your wish is my command.”


	13. pin me with your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140511345175/fever-prompt), prompted by [notanotherscreename](notanotherscreename.tumblr.com).

All the breath punches out of Felix as he’s thrown against the wall with the force of the blow, but he somehow manages to get his staff up in time, held diagonally across his chest. It feels flimsy in his hands, but it’s enough to keep from getting split in half as Carver follows up the hit with a swoop of his practice sword. The resounding _crack_ is deafening, but both wooden weapons hold. So Felix holds. Braced against the wall, feet grinding into the dirt of the training yard, he grits his teeth and glares up at him, every part of his body straining against the pressure. 

Carver’s eyes blaze blue out of a sweaty face, brow lowered in concentration and his dark hair falling over his forehead in wet spikes. He’s mesmerizing, truth be told, but Felix rebels against the urge to soften. Carver has had him pinned like this before, and this time he refuses to break first. 

A trickle of sweat slides down his upper lip and he licks it away without thinking. Carver’s eyes drop to his mouth. And stay there. _Interesting_. Felix lets his lips pout just a little, teeth sinking into the flesh of the bottom one before withdrawing and leaving it pinker and plumper than before. Carver looks a little bit cross eyed. With a sudden smirk and a shift of his weight, Felix shoves him back and cuts his leg under him, and Carver goes down in a heap, sprawling on his back in the dirt with the look of surprise. Felix plants the end of his staff in the dirt beside his head and leans over him, eyes dancing with laughter. 

“Enjoy the view?” he murmurs, enjoying the ruddy flush that climbs instantly up Carver’s face. He winks and saunters off to put his staff away, smiling to himself when he hears Carver hasten to follow. 

“Felix, wait!”

He hooks his staff in place and turns to watch Carver jog over, still red in the face. He arches an eyebrow and waits. 

“I, um. I’m sorry about that, back there, that was very unprofessional of me.”

Felix can’t help but laugh. “Unprofessional? Carver, it was _human_. Maker knows I’ve gotten distracted staring at your arse on many occasions. It’s only fair the tables get turned once in a while, and so I took advantage of it.”

Carver gapes at him like a beached fish, sword going slack in his grip. “You... what?”

“Carver.” He steps a little closer, and ensconced as they are in the shade of the wall, he feel safe enough to lift a hand and brush a lock of hair back from Carver’s forehead. “You’re bloody gorgeous and you know it. What’s so surprising?”

“That you’re admitting it, I guess,” Carver mutters. He’s staring at the ground but he doesn’t seem at all bothered by Felix’s hand in his hair or the way they stand so close together their belt buckles clack together. “Do you want to, um. Go somewhere more private?”

“You’re sweet,” Felix tells him warmly. “Come here.”

Carver comes, skittish but willing, and they kiss softly, Carver’s hands on his waist burning through the thin, sweat-damp linen of his shirt. Felix licks Carver’s lower lip and tastes salt and dirt, and Carver moans, biting back at his mouth until their tongues slide together, gentling. 

“Someone’s going to see,” Carver whispers even as he drifts closer, feet nudging Felix’s legs apart a few inches. He leans him against the wall and touches his lips to the side of his neck. 

Felix sighs and tilts his head back, inviting. “Then let them see.” He hooks his hand around the nape of Carver’s neck, directing him back to his mouth. “Kiss me.” 

“As you wish.” 


	14. haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "[haunt me](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140753220200/haunt-me-for-fever-lol)" from [jack](jack-the-giantkiller.tumblr.com). <3

 

Carver is not unfamiliar with spirits. He grew up with a mage father and two mage siblings; magic and the Fade are not strange to him. But then, he can’t say he’s ever been dogged by a very persistent spirit before, benign or otherwise, so he must admit this is a new experience.

He sits up in bed when he feels it, the familiar tinge of coldness in the room. When he’d first felt it on the trek through the mountains, he’d mistaken it for the pervasive Frostback chill, or an aftereffect of Corypheus’ tampering with his mark. Now he knows better. He squints against the dark—it’s a cloudy night, and the moonlight filtering through the enormous glass windows in his chambers at Skyhold is murky at best—and yes, there it is. A slight dimple of silver near his desk.

“You’re here,” he says, perhaps a little stupidly. To be fair, he’s not sure how much the spirit understands. Or ghost, he supposes. He hasn’t told anyone about it, not even Bethany. He wasn’t exactly expecting the spirit to hang around this long. Maybe he should tell Solas about it. _Then again, maybe not_ , he adds to himself, thinking sourly of the prickly apostate. Nothing he says ever seems to penetrate that hide-tough exterior, and he’s just about given up trying to get in the elf’s good graces. “I wasn’t sure you’d stick around this long. It’s a long way from Haven.”

The silver shadow flickers and hardens—or solidifies? He’s not sure of the proper terminology. Carver can make out the fall of fabric, a loose shirt tucked into close-fitting trousers, a shorn head and the bump of a snub nose. He’s being ignored. With a sigh he reaches for the matches in his bedside table and finds his slippers with his feet.

Candle lit, he goes over to perch on the desk. The apparition appears to be leafing through some of his paperwork—one of the many forms he has to complete for improvements to their dilapidated fortress. Carver sets the candle on the desk and folds his arms against the cold, wishing he’d put a dressing gown on over his nightshirt.

“Can you hold a quill? Would be awfully useful. You forge my signature, I get to sleep for more than three hours a night.”

The spirit looks askance at him as if to say _I don’t think so._ So much for that idea.

“You know there’s something really familiar about you,” Carver says into the echoing silence. “You getting better at this? You look a lot more… solid.”

The spirit looks back at the papers. Carver doesn’t see what’s so fascinating about them, but maybe there’s not much to read in the Fade.

“I know I’ve seen you before. I just wish I could remember where. Were you always dressed like that? You look like you’ve been through the war.”

It’s true, too. The spirit is barefoot and dressed in what might as well be rags: a simple shirt open at the throat and snug trousers that grow ragged and threadbare around the ankles. His hair is shaved close to his scalp and his face is patchy with stubble, eyes shadowed and dark—but maybe that’s just a ghost thing. If there’s any clue on his body to what he died of, Carver can’t see it. Unless he died of exhaustion. Carver thinks the ghost looks even more tired than he is, and he’s _dead_.

Abruptly, an icy draft of air sweeps across the room, although no windows are open—he double-checked everything before he went to bed. The papers on his desk scatter, and the candle gutters once and goes out. Cursing, Carver springs for the pages, carefully avoiding the silver-grey patch where his spirit stands. When he’s sure he’s collected them all, he returns to the desk and pauses. Perfectly aligned on the clear patch of desk where he was filling out signatures earlier is the requisition form for a mage tower. Carver had been waffling on the issue for a few days; although he’d gone to Therinfal Redoubt to recruit the Templars, or what remained of them, he had felt badly about what happened to the mages at Redcliffe and he’s been seeking some way to make reparations. This would be perfect, if Ser Barris and the Knight-Captain—that is, _Commander_ Cullen hadn’t been pressuring him to support the Templars with more visible infrastructure.

But it appears the decision has been made for him. At the bottom of the requisition form is his own signature, perfectly inscribed without even a droplet of wasted ink. He picks up the paper and touches the scrawling lines that look as if he wrote them himself, though he has no memory of doing so. They’re still a bit damp, and his finger comes away with spots of black.

A rush of cold tingles at the nape of his neck and he turns to see the apparition hovering right at his shoulder, staring at him. He waves the paper in the air between them, but it passes right through the man’s chest. “Is this some kind of sign? You want me to build a mage tower? Another Circle?”

The spirit’s nostrils flare. _Is he breathing? Can he even breathe?_ His pale, translucent face screws up as if in concentration. Carver holds his breath, waiting. The spirit opens his mouth—and no sound comes out. Both of them slump in tandem, disappointed.

“I guess it couldn’t be that easy, huh?” Carver says. “Was this difficult for you? Could you do it again?” He sets the paper down carefully, apart from the other jumbled mess he collected from the floor, and taps his forged signature.

The spirit looks at it, apparently apathetic. Useless.

“The Fade is fucking useless!” Carver exclaims aloud. It’s hard to tell, but it almost seems as if the spirit jumps, startled by his outburst. “What’s the point of haunting me if you can’t even communicate? Listen, I’m cold. I’m going back to bed. Let me know when you figure it out, okay?”

Grumpy, he stomps back to bed and envelops himself in the warm sheets. In spite of the odd events of the night, he falls almost immediately to sleep.

Morning, when it comes, is cold and grey and tastes like ash in the back of his throat. Carver groans at the bells chiming in the Chantry garden down below, rousing the members of the Inquisition for a new day’s work, and rolls over in bed. He freezes. Scattered all over his bed are the remaining papers he was supposed to have signed, requisition forms and preliminary treaties and all sorts of other things Josephine had told him about but that he hadn’t really understood. And they all say the same thing, repeated over and over again in an elegant, looping script that covers the backs and fronts without regard to margins or the words already written there. _Teach them._

_teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them teach them_

Carver presses his hands to his eyes and flops back onto the pillow. Josie is going to _kill_ him.


	15. i fell hard for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka a study in cheesy chapter titles. [“Please put me down it’s just a sprained ankle" For Carver's *ahem* "lifting skills"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/140807127690/please-put-me-down-its-just-a-sprained-ankle) for [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com). <3

“Maker's balls!”

Carver sets down his groceries—drops them, more like—and runs across the lobby of his apartment building to the foot of the stairs where someone just took a terrific spill at two in the morning on a weekday. It’s the new guy, he sees as he gets closer, the one who moved in just down the hall from him. Currently he’s lying on his back on the floor, glasses askew and limbs sprawled in a worrisome configuration that doesn’t look entirely natural.

“Are you all right, mate?” he asks, crouching down next to him. His eyes are open, at least—that’s good, right? “Did you break anything?”

“I don’t think so,” the guy says slowly, pushing his glasses into place. And oh, Maker, he’s a looker. Sepia skin, a light dusting of freckles on his snub nose, and wide hazel eyes that blink dazedly up at him from behind his round tortoiseshell glasses. Tevinter accent, but hey, you can’t win ’em all. He starts to push himself up on his elbows and winces. “Ow.”

“Where does it hurt?” Carver asks. He feels stupid, like he’s just parroting every trashy late-night hospital drama he’s fallen asleep on the couch to, but New Guy doesn’t seem to mind.

“My ankle. I don’t think it’s broken, but— _ah_ , that fucking hurts.”

“Well don’t try to stand. Here, let me help you.”

He’s definitely not drunk, Carver decides as he gets an arm around his waist and a waft of peppermint breath across his face. That’s a plus. Maybe just overtired, missed a step, and boom. He’s more solid than he looks with such a slight figure, and he smells a little bit like cinnamon and old books. “Is that better?”

New Guy stares at him, incredulous. “Well you didn’t have to pick me up, it’s just a sprained ankle.”

“It’s not a problem,” Carver says. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. “But, um, I can put you down if you want.”

New Guy licks his lips. “No, that’s okay. Um. I was just headed up to my apartment… I think we live next door to each other?”

“Yeah. Um, I’m Carver, by the way,” he says as he begins to navigate the stairs, his burden cradled carefully to his chest. He’s heavy, but not too heavy—he lifts more at the gym without a spotter. “Carver Hawke.”

“I’m Felix,” is the shy reply. Carver could swear he’s leaning in a little closer, one hand curled in the front of his shirt, but he’s too busy keeping his ankle from clunking against the wall to be sure. “Felix Alexius, I’m a professor at the University.”

“Recently?” Carver wonders. “My sister teaches there.”

“Bethany? I thought I recognized the name. I just started yesterday, in fact. And here I am already with a busted ankle.” He sighs mournfully, and Carver stops in front of his door.

“This is it, yeah?”

“Yes, perfect! Let me just… get my keys…”

Carver waits patiently while he wriggles in his grip, trying to get a hand inside his pocket. Short of breath, Felix laughs a little, nose to Carver’s collarbone. “Sorry about this, I’m usually a lot more coordinated. Too many teas at the library I guess, I’m kind of jittery.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got you,” Carver says comfortably. Felix makes a little hum—agreement? appreciation?—and he feels his blush intensify.

“There we go.” From Carver’s arms, Felix turns and fits the key into the lock, and they ease into the apartment together. “The couch is right over there—I really do appreciate this, you know. You didn’t have to. And your groceries!”

“It’s all right, I’ll go back for them.” Carver stands back up, bereft and empty-handed. “Um. Do you need me to do anything else? Get you painkillers or something?”

“No, no, that’s all right. But you must let me thank you properly. I know it’s late, but… tea?”

“I’d love that. Let me just, um…” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the groceries, and Felix smiles, eyes all crinkly and soft. _Oh shit._ He can never resist eyes like that.

“Of course. See you in a few minutes.”

“Yeah.”

It takes effort to tear himself away from Felix’s side, and when he reaches the door, still open, he turns around to close it behind him and finds those eyes pinning to his arse. Caught, Felix’s gaze skitters up and away, and Carver chuckles. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” he says, voice low. The blush that springs to life in Felix’s cheeks is immensely gratifying.

“I’ll be here,” Felix says to his shoes, and Carver slips into the hall with a light heart and the promise of potential sending his fingers tapping a rhythm on his thighs.


	16. a midnight snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt for my darling [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com), ["Do you want me to rub your shoulders?" ](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141037757520/prompt-for-fever-do-you-want-me-to-rub-your)

Felix wakes up with a snort, cheek sticking to the table as he jerks upright. He groans pitifully. His entire back and neck are sore from falling asleep in the study carrel, and there’s a sticky note clinging to his chin from all the notes he’d been scribbling on his latest equation. He peels it off and lets it flutter to the desk, wondering what woke him.

A tap comes at the door. He looks over and can’t help but smile—through the glass he can see his boyfriend, holding up a plastic bag from the Rivaini hole in the wall around the corner, his favorite place to order greasy, delicious food at three in the morning. At his beckoning hand, Carver eases into the room and bends down to kiss the top of his head. “Hey there, sunshine. How’s the term project coming?”

“It’s… coming. Ugh.” He rubs his eyes, brushing away the grit of sleep. “Thanks for the food.”

“Of course, babe. Dig in, the calculator can wait.”

Carver helps him shuffle his work to one side so he can eat without getting spicy sauce everywhere, and then he stands behind him, scraping his fingernails through his hair. “Maker fuck that feels amazing.”

“Want me to rub your shoulders?”

“Mmm. Please.”

Carver has the best hands. They’re huge, with thick, sturdy fingers and blunt nails that he keeps neatly trimmed, and they’re also very, very talented. He follows the knots in Felix’s shoulders, working them out one by one, and soon Felix is slumped over the table again like so much hot rubber. “Feeling better?” Carver murmurs, even as this thumbs dig into the tender spots to either side of Felix’s spine.

“Much. But don’t stop.”

Carver presses on, only ceasing when he hears a soft snore coming from his boyfriend. He chuckles and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Babe, I think it’s time to give it up.”

“’M so close,” Felix slurs, fingers curling slack around a pencil.

“Then it’ll be easy to finish in the morning when you’re more awake. C’mon. I’ll carry you to the dorms.”

“Y’don’t have to. Oof.” Felix pours into Carver’s arms like cloth, draping over his shoulder and his legs hooked loosely around his waist. “Y’re so strong…”

“Mmhmm. I lift weights every day just so I can carry your sorry ass wherever you need to go.”

“It’s not sorry,” Felix pouts, and Carver chuckles, shuffling Felix’s things into his bag one-handed.

“You’re right, it’s a gorgeous ass.” The hand currently supporting it squeezes, and Felix squeaks. “And very nice to grope. Now go to sleep, I’ve got you.”

“I know you do,” Felix sighs. He buries his nose in Carver’s collar and is out like a light.


	17. do you come here often?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this [prompt](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141153083830/our-children-are-in-the-same-class-and-we-both) from [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com), slightly amended, but with the core themes of single parenthood and snark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Leandra Hawke-Tethras, aka Lele, from earlgreyer's LAWB 'verse :)

“Lele, put that down. No, darling, we do not eat the wood chips. Or throw the wood chips. Or… bloody hell.”

“Bloody hell!” Lele chirps, delight written all over her chubby little face. Carver sighs.

“Come on, squirt, let’s tackle the monkey bars instead, okay? Uncle Carver’s at his wits end.”

“Wit sand!”

“Yeah, no, we’re not going in the wet sand. Your mum would never forgive me for ruining your tights.”

He’s still at a bit of a loss as to why Bethany put her daughter in tights and a dress for a playdate with _Carver_ , of all people. Not that she doesn’t look utterly adorable, because she does: two little blonde pigtails, a bright red shift dress sprinkled with ladybugs, and black lace tights to match her spit-shine Mary Janes. Adorable. Just… not good playground attire.

He swings her up on his shoulders and she shrieks with laughter, clutching his hair until he winces. She’s a good-natured tot, but Maker help him she pulls like her mother. “If this is payback for nailing your pigtails to the wall, Beth, a thousand apologies,” he mutters as he forges his way across the playground to the monkey bars. There, at least, she’ll be a few feet away from the ground at all times, which seems to be the best place for her. He hopes.

Unfortunately, the monkey bars are occupied when he arrives—that is, the space underneath the monkey bars is occupied, by a small dark-haired boy with large ears and a serious expression. Carver pegs him at around four, almost twice Lele’s age. He appears to be building a small fort out of wood chips, as far as Carver can make out. He looks up when they approach and Carver puts on his friendliest expression.

“Hello. We would like to use the monkey bars. Is that okay with you?”

The boy’s lower lip pokes out mutinously. _Oh no._

“It’s okay, we can go play somewhere else, right Lele?”

From over his head he hears, very softly, “Wanna monkey bars.”

Shit. And the worst babysitter of the year award goes to…

“Dio, what have we learned about sharing?”

Carver turns around so fast Lele nearly rips a chunk of hair out of his head. Smothering his wince, he looks the newcomer over. Crisp white pants, a plum shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbows, wingtip oxfords… _all he’s missing is the straw boater._ “Are you sure that’s the kind of outfit you want to wear to a playground?” is out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and it’s too late to take it back. The man raises one manicured eyebrow.

“Are you sure that’s the kind of outfit your _child_ should be wearing to a playground?”

Carver can see one muddy Mary Jane and a bit of lace out of the corner of his eye. He winces. “Niece, actually. I think my sister thought I was taking her to see a movie or something.”

“And I just got out of work. So, we all have a story.” The man is smiling a little bit, now, which is good. It makes him a lot easier on the eyes. Carver thinks of his own sour expression and quickly amends it to something more friendly. “I’m Felix, by the way. And this is Dio.”

“Carver,” he says, reaching out to shake hands. He decides not to comment on the odd name—he’s put his foot in his mouth once already. “And Lele.”

“Odd name.”

“And Dio isn’t?” Carver shoots back, but it’s without heat. “Sorry, _Leandra_ , but she’s a little young for a name like that. She’s got to grow into it.”

“Leandra, hmm? A very pretty name. I think it’s best if I don’t tell you Dio’s full name, however.” Felix hunkers down on the balls of his feet and thumbs a speck of dirt away from his son’s cheek. “What do you think, _curito_? Shall we let the lovely ladybug have a turn?” His hands move in tandem with his mouth, at a moderate pace that Carver’s two semesters of beginner-level TSL in university is barely enough to keep up with.

Reluctantly, the boy nods once. He settles his last woodchip in an upright position, wedged into the hard-packed dirt like a solider, and holds up both hands imperiously. Felix scoops him up with ease. He tucks his head under his father’s chin immediately, but stares at Carver from underneath it with glass-green eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he was deaf.”

“Why are you sorry?” Felix asks mildly.

“I just meant,” Carver says, slinging Lele off his shoulders and holding her up high enough to hold onto the monkey bars, “I was asking him if Lele could play here, and he couldn’t even hear what I was saying. A bit rude of me.”

“I’m sure he got the general idea, he was just being stubborn.” He presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You know she’s too young to be swinging from those, don’t you?”

Carver stares at him over the bars. “Yeah. That’s why I’m standing here, hanging on to her. I’m not going to drop my sister’s kid off the monkey bars, all right?”

“Just making sure,” Felix murmurs. “One sees all sorts on playgrounds.”

“Do you come here often, then? Oh, Maker, I didn’t mean it like—”

“Occasionally,” Felix says, laughing. “I get Dio on weekends, so I try to take him to new and interesting places. But the playground here is an old favorite.”

“His mother…?”

“We’re separated. Well, we were never married—it’s a long story, I’m sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.”

Carver shrugs, keeping his eyes on Lele’s progress instead of on the handsome bloke in the white chinos. “If you want to tell it, I’m game. But maybe not over the monkey bars?”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

“I dunno, drinks?” He glances over to see how his offer is being received, and Felix looks… pleasantly surprised, eyes bright and open and a little smile playing around his mouth. It’s a very nice mouth. Carver redirects his attention to Lele. “Not this weekend, obviously, but maybe during the week sometime?”

“That would be nice,” Felix says after a moment. “I—what is it, Dio?” He bends his head to watch his son’s hands, moving in a slapdash, childlike way full of broad gestures and slow, determined fingerspelling. “Of course you may, would you like to ask?”

Dio scrambles out of his father’s arms and goes to tug on Carver’s shirt. He lets Lele down from the monkey bars and holds onto her hands while he bends to Dio’s level. With a little wrinkle of concentration in between his eyebrows, the boy painstakingly fingerspells _play_ and follows it up with a question mark drawn against his chest.

“What do you think, Lele?” Carver asks, tickling her sides until she squeals. “Do you want to play with Dio?”

For answer, Lele snatches Dio’s hand and drags him over to the sandbox. Carver sighs, resigned to his fate, and stands up, brushing off his knees. “My sister’s going to kill me.”

“Perhaps next time she won’t send her daughter off dressed in her Sunday best,” Felix says as they fall in to stand beside each other.

 _No_ , Carver thinks, _I’ll tell her I picked up a bloke at the playground and she won’t be able to stop laughing long enough to be angry at me._


	18. by moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern Thedas werewolf au, anyone? 
> 
> For [jack](jack-the-giantkiller.tumblr.com), and the prompt " ~~snuck out of the house to hook up sex~~ /or/ [I need a place to crash sex](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141258138575/snuck-out-of-the-house-to-hook-up-sex-or-i-need)."

“Listen, I really appreciate this. I know it’s a huge inconvenience...”

“Shut up, Fee, it’s not an inconvenience.” Carver flicks on the lights in the living room, illuminating everything in a soft, warm glow. He’s already piled blankets on the couch, and though he’s not looking forward to a night on the rickety old beast—an inheritance from Garrett that he hasn’t yet managed to get rid of—he’s more than willing to make the sacrifice for Felix. “Come on, I’ll show you the bedroom.” He trawls through the room to the stairs, built from rough-hewn wood he chopped himself, now worn smooth on the tops from five years of use. It’s only at their base that he realizes Felix hasn’t followed him. “Something wrong?”

Felix lingers by the couch uncertainly. “Aren’t I sleeping down here?” 

“Of course not. I’m not going to make you sleep on that old thing, you’d wake up with your spine in knots.”

“So you’re sleeping on it instead,” Felix says, nonplussed. 

“That was the plan, yeah. Come on, don’t fight me on this. I can give you a good night’s sleep at least, if nothing else.”

“Don’t be silly,” Felix says quietly. “You’re doing a lot for me already.”

Carver shrugs. “There’s no one else I’d rather do it for.” Without waiting to see if he follows, he heads upstairs to the loft. It’s pretty sparse, but comfortable, with a thick shag rug and a king-sized bed piled with blankets for the cold Frostback nights. The stove isn’t lit so he bends to do that, adjusting the gas to the right angle until heat blooms in his face. When he steps back, dusting off his hands, Felix has arrived, bag still slung over his shoulder as he surveys the bed. 

“You know, there’s probably plenty of room for both of us. No need for anyone to sleep on the couch if it’s not necessary.” 

Carver looks at the bed, too. “I kind of sprawl.”

“That’s okay. Um. I’ve been sleeping in my smalls lately, because of the...”

“Hot blooded? Yeah, it happens, don’t worry about it. I was that way too, at first.” 

“Does it... subside, eventually?”

“Give it a year or so. Or maybe you just get used to it—I still can’t decide.” 

They get ready for bed in relative silence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. They’re too accustomed to one another for that. Felix has been one of the few people outside his family to visit him regularly since he was bitten, usually staying in a hotel in the town half an hour’s drive away, and he feels a kinship with him that he’s felt with almost no one else. Even Garrett still rubs him the wrong way, though he puts that to a lifetime of butting heads rather than the wolf truly disliking him. The wolf makes it known, when it dislikes people. There’s never any room for debate. 

But Felix has always been his friend. The news about his... accident... had been startling and sad, but Carver would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit excited by the prospect. He’d been alone for what felt like decades, but the wolf inside him was made to run with others of his kind. He needs a pack. Maybe Felix could be that. 

“I didn’t bring much,” Felix says of the meager contents of his bag when they return to the loft. He plucks at the collar of his shirt, clearly over-warm—he’s pink in the face and glassy-eyed, and Carver feels the keen ache of sympathy in his breast. He remembers clearly the discomfort of the first few cycles, when the wolf is still ill at ease inside. 

“That’s all right. You know I live like a monk.” Projecting calm disinterest as much as he can, he strips out of his clothes and pulls on a clean pair of boxers. He didn’t tell Felix, but he sleeps naked most days, even in the dead of winter. He hasn’t had time to change the bedding since Felix contacted him earlier that day asking if he could crash with him for a day or two—or a week—until he got his bearings, and he wonders what the wolf inside him will think of it. Surrounded by another’s scent, the traces of sweat and oil and, yeah, probably a little bit of semen imprinted in the sheets. It’s a potent mix, especially for a young werewolf. But Felix looks dog-tired enough that it probably won’t be an issue. He’ll fall right to sleep, and that will be that. 

They climb into bed, and true to Felix’s word, it’s plenty big enough for both of them, with space between for him to stretch out his toes. Still, his neck prickles even in the dark, every sense on high alert. The wolf knows. The wolf always knows. _Friend. Pack. Mate?_

 _No_ , Carver tells it sternly, and rolls over onto his side. _Stop that_. 

The wolf whines and prowls, pacing back and forth, _wondering_. On the other side of the bed, Felix’s breathing steadies and slows, and Carver forces himself to do the same. 

///

He wakes up feeling warmer than usual, though not uncomfortably so, with a few pale strips of first light laying over the bed. His body has sprawled overnight as he expected, limbs melting across the mattress—he twitches, like a dog in its sleep, feeling the weight of another body pressed up against his own. _Felix_. 

His friend has nestled in against his side during the night, face down in the pillows under Carver’s armpit and his arms folded in between his own chest and Carver’s ribs. His leg is slung over Carver’s, and his breaths puff steady and slow, hypnotic. Carver stares at the ceiling. He can’t tell which part of him is more intrigued, his human self or the wolf. Perhaps a little of both. Giving in to the urge to scent, he rolls gingerly and tucks his nose along the top of Felix’s head. It’s not normally a place rich with pheromones, but a night spent in the warmth and safety of Carver’s bed has lifted oil to the surface of his scalp. It smells spicy and alluring to the wolf’s nose, but Carver restrains himself. _None of that. Not while he’s asleep._

“Mmhn. Carv?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

Felix stirs, and seems to realize where his face is planted. “Uh. Sorry, I…”

“It’s fine. It’s flattering, actually,” Carver admits, watching with some regret as Felix sits up and rubs his eyes.

“Flattering? How so?”

“You gravitated toward my scent in your sleep. It means you trust me, consider me safe. Pack,” he adds. He watches Felix closely for a negative reaction to the word, but he only cracks his neck and lays back down, close to Carver but not as close as before.

“Is that… a thing? I was doing some reading on the way down, and, um. It seems like there are conflicting reports.”

“That’s because the people who write those books are working from a fuckton of superstition instead of science. Pack is a ‘thing,’ yes. It’s why I was so glad to see you, all those times. The lone wolf idea is a ton of bullshit. You need people. Preferably others of your kind, but anyone will do in a pinch.”

Felix cranes his head to look up at him, positioned lower on the bed as he is. “You haven’t really said ‘werewolf’ out loud, yet. Is there a reason for that?”

“Werewolf isn’t what I am—it’s what society likes to call us, because it makes sense to them, but I don’t like it. I’m a man, and I’m a wolf. Not half and half, not sometimes, but both, _all_ , all the time. You can feel him, can’t you? Your wolf, inside your head?”

Felix’s dark eyes turn inward, considering. “Yes. It’s… it’s like he’s scratching at the walls, trying to get out.”

“It’ll feel like that for a while, I’m afraid. Your first cycle is always the hardest.” He wriggles down the bed a little ways and lets their thighs brush together under the covers. Felix doesn’t pull away. “Full moon’s in a week, though. That’s not so bad.”

Felix closes his eyes. “Does it hurt?” he asks in a small voice.

“Changing? I… _hurt_ isn’t really the right word. It’s more… overwhelming. The first time is the worst. It’s not really painful, just. Intense, I suppose. I’m told it helps to have a friend or packmate with you when it happens.”

“You’re told?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have anyone, so I don’t know for certain.”

Carver isn’t looking at him, so the hand slipping into his is a surprise. “I’m glad you’re my pack, Carver. And I’m—I’m scared, but I’m glad I have you. Here.”

“You’re stuck with me now, I’m afraid,” Carver says quietly. His hand closes reflexively around Felix’s, and he longs to move closer. To scent the rich swath of his neck, to rub their bodies together, mark him, make him _his_. He shudders. He can no longer tell if it’s his own desire, or the wolf’s.

“How do we become pack? Is there, I don’t know, a ceremony or something?”

Carver snorts. “I don’t think so. We get along, our wolves get along... as far as I can tell. That’s about all that’s required.”

Felix rolls onto his belly and props his chin on his folded arms. “What does your wolf think of me?”

Carver’s mind bends like a rubber band, the circle stretching into parallel lines that twist and curl together until they’re nearly indistinguishable. Nothing changes, outwardly, but he can smell Felix a little stronger than before, feel the prickle of his body hair like scratchy wool against his skin. The wolf rears up, intrigued. He licks his lips. “You are pack,” he says decisively, voice rumbling in his chest. It’s his own voice—the wolf can’t speak with human words—but there’s something feral about it all the same. “You have always been pack. But now you can run with us and not grow tired; sleep beside us and not grow restless with fear. You are of our blood and bone. Pack. Friend.”  _Mate_. The word curls on his tongue, tastes like moss and woodsmoke. He shudders and opens his eyes. 

Felix is staring at him, pupils dilated and his lips slick with saliva. As Carver watches, he dips his head and tilts it slightly to the side, as if stretching, or listening to something Carver can’t quite hear. Palm itching, he reaches out and touches the elongated curve of his neck, delicate, relishing the quiver that runs through Felix at the contact. “Carv...”

“Yeah?”

“I think, um. I think my wolf likes you. A lot.”

The way he says _my wolf_ , hesitant and sort of clumsy like he’s still growing accustomed to it, is impossibly endearing. Carver chews on the inside of his lip in thought. “Yeah, that’s... normal. I think.”

Felix snaps his eyes to him, a little bit yellower around the edges than they were before. “You think?”

“I mean, I... I think so. My wolf’s rather fond of you, too. Always has been.”

“Is there ever a disconnect? Like, you like someone but your wolf doesn’t?”

“More like the other way around,” Carver mutters. “Gare still annoys the fuck out of me, but the wolf knows he’s family. Pack. Trustworthy. Whatever.”

“And I’m sure he never lets you live it down,” Felix teases. Their thighs are still pressed together under the blankets—Carver’s skin is on fire. _Smell his want for us_ , says the wolf, perturbed by his reticence. Carver cups the side of his jaw, thumb sliding down, down into the hollow of his throat, the most tender and vulnerable place within reach. The place a wolf bares to show submission. Felix drags in a ragged breath, showing just the slightest bit of a pink tongue. 

 _Maker_. “Fee...”

“Andraste’s ass, Carver, just _kiss_ me.” 

Carver feels more wolf than man when he seizes Fee’s face in both hands and devours his mouth. His heart is racing and his blood feels aflame, stoked higher by the intoxicating feel of his stumbled cheeks against his palms. Felix moans and his thigh moves against his, reminding him of what little clothing they’re both wearing. His hands immediately find their way beneath the covers—down his smooth chest, over pebbled nipples, and along his back, muscled and flexing as Felix presses closer into his arms. 

He grabs a handful of ass and Felix whimpers, fingers skidding across the breadth of his chest. “Yes, oh _fuck_ , Carver…”

“How long have you wanted this?” Carver rasps. His nose follows the pheromone trail down his throat and under his arms, and he wrests Felix’s hands above his head for better access. It’s easy, like this, to roll him over onto his back and sit bestride him, drawing deep, dizzying whuffs of air into his lungs.

“I—I don’t know. Ages. But I thought… you wouldn’t want me. That your wolf wouldn’t want me.”

“The wolf has always been indifferent,” Carver admits, sitting back a little. He palms the side of Felix’s face and traces his lower lip with his thumb. “Now… he’s very interested. Very.” _Ours. He is ours, they belong to us_.

“And you?” Felix asks quietly, pulling him out of his head. He’s flushed and dark-eyed where he lays against the pillows, and Carver can’t resist stroking his pretty brown nipples with light fingers.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” Carver admits. He spreads his palm in the center of Felix’s chest. Already the blood mark is starting to show beneath the skin, the rune that marks him as _wolf_. Carver’s is dark and carmine red with age, a sprawling spiral blotch that swells and recedes with the waxing and waning of the moon, but Felix’s is only a spattering of rust-brown, formless and new. “I just… well, you know what I am. Have been for years, now, and the most I’ve done for myself is build a little shack in the woods and occasionally remember to get groceries. I’m hardly an auspicious catch.”

Felix frowns, reaching up to touch his face. Carver wonders if it’s a wolf thing—he hasn’t been with anyone since he was bitten, so he can’t say for sure, but there’s something primal and necessary about it. Something intimate. He leans into Felix’s touch and sighs with his fingers trail down his beard to his throat, nails scraping lightly at the tender flesh. “You shouldn’t say that about yourself,” Felix says, soft but determined. “You’re amazing. You build this house all by yourself, without training; you continue to be a part of society even though I know your natural inclination is to retreat from it; and you write, for goodness’ sake. I’ve seen some of your work, Carve, it’s truly remarkable. No one else is doing that. Writing about the wolf, honestly, from a… from that perspective.”

“You can say _werewolf_ ,” Carver says, amused. “You’re of that blood, now. You can call yourself whatever you like.”

“I don’t want to call myself anything except for _yours_.” He digs his nails into Carver’s nape and drags him down, mouth to mouth. “Mate with me.”

“Kinky,” Carver growls, low in his chest, and it’s only half a joke. His cock is rock-hard in his smalls, has been since he woke up, and those words coming from _Felix_ of all people… _Maker preserve me._ He kisses Felix hard and presses their bellies together, bare and vulnerable. Heat sizzles through him at the full-body contact, and the wolf inside him howls. Triumphant. _Ours_.

 _Yeah, all right, have it your way_ , Carver thinks, and claims Felix for his own.


	19. running with the wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I'll run you a bath,"](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141433164810/ill-run-you-a-bath) for [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com). A continuation of the previous chapter.

Carver has never felt more tired in his life. His head is aching, a side-effect of the flu he is only just beginning to shake off, and he can’t feel his fingers or the tips of his ears for how cold it is. He stamps a circle in the ground and tucks his nose into his scarf, longing for a nice hot shower and then bed, with the fire roaring and the blankets piled high and Felix tucked in next to him, warm and smooth and safe. 

He sighs, breath frosting cruelly in the air. _Felix_. The reason he’s out here, freezing his bollocks off at the tail-end of the second moon of Wintermarch. He rubs his nose to get the blood flowing and sighs. He’s glad Felix has taken so well to his wolf self, but still. He’d rather be in bed. 

The moon is just a fingerspan or two above the horizon and he’s starting to get genuinely concerned when his sensitive ears pick up something just beyond the range of normal human hearing. He turns. Out of the dark, a pale silver-grey shadow against the dappled snowfall, comes Felix. He grins and holds his hand out, fingers splayed in spite of the cold. In only a few breaths, Felix comes barreling by, a furry torpedo clipping through his fingers and grinding to a skittering, tail-wagging halt. He does an immediate about-face and trots back to Carver, thrusting his cold nose into his hand and looking up at him with soulful brown eyes. 

It’s still a bit weird seeing Fee’s eyes in the wolf’s face. His wolf has never been very interested in looking at his own reflection, so he has no comparison. But he’s beautiful, Felix is, with a snowy white coat just barely tinged with grey and a few flecks of black along his spine. 

“Have a good run?” he asks, ruffling Felix’s large ears. They’re a little bigger than Carver’s, a perfect match for his human traits that Carver finds incredibly endearing. He tugs on Felix’s ruff and starts the walk back to the cabin. “Come on then, you brute, before the moon sets and you’re stuck walking naked the rest of the way.” 

He’s still not sure how much Felix understands when he wears the wolf form—this is only his second cycle, and he still hasn’t gotten a handle on shifting forms at will—but something must get through, because Felix barks and takes off, tail streaming behind him as he bounds down the mountainside toward the cabin. Carver rolls his eyes, more fond than irritated, and follows. 

When he lets himself in, Felix is already there, pink from head to toe and dressed only in a pair of smalls, a minimal nod to decency after the wolf’s free reign. Changing forms can be taxing, but Felix just looks energized, flush with health and heat after his night’s gallivant. He nuzzles up to Carver immediately, nose going straight to his ear and fingers burrowing into his beard. “Good night?” Carver grunts, standing still and letting him relearn Carver’s scent and feel in this form. He doesn’t touch, in case his skin is still too sensitive, but Felix grabs hold of his hands anyway and presses them to his mouth. 

“Maker, you’re freezing. Come on, I’ll draw you a bath.”

“Do I not smell nice?” Carver teases, though he lets Felix drag him through the house regardless. 

“You smell wonderful, but you’re cold and it’s my fault. So come here. Strip.” 

Felix runs him a bath—hot water only, no soap or bubbles, not that Carver owns any of the latter—and all but bullies him inside, pulling up a chair beside the tub so he can massage Carver’s scalp with shampoo. Carver can smell the electricity of his arousal, sharp and pungent through the steam, and it activates his own like a virus in the blood. He curls a hand around his half-hard prick and sighs. 

“Hey there,” Felix murmurs, sounding amused. “I’m feeling left out.”

“Mmm. Get in here then, sweetheart.” 

His eyes are closed, so he only hears Felix as he stands, chair legs sifting against the floor, brief peeling away and whispering down his thighs. Then the plunk and shift of water, and Felix is kneeling between his thighs, eyes dark and feral in the low light. He leans forward and Carver thinks he catches a glimpse of sharp, elongated teeth before they’re kissing. 

It’s not a sharp kiss. It’s soft, languid, slow, drugged with the hot water and the curls of steam that wreath them like breath huffed hard into the cold. Felix reaches down and pulls on his cock lazily. 

“How did I do?” he whispers against Carver’s lips. 

“You’re a quick learner. But... mmmmmhh... you’re easily distracted. I was afraid you weren’t going to come back in time and that I would have to try and find your naked body before you froze to death.”

“Bloody grim. Couldn’t you shift yourself and find me?”

“And what, drag you back with my teeth? Shift forms and carry you, also naked, until _I_ froze to death?” He speaks only partly in jest. The danger is very real at this time of year, and though he doubts it would ever come to such extremes, he wants to impress upon Felix the importance of staying close. 

“I am sorry, _amatus_ ,” Felix says, leaning their foreheads together. His hand has slowed, so Carver reaches down and grips Felix’s cock in turn, coaxing them to some kind of rhythm beneath the water. 

“It’s all right. Now you know.” He curls a hand behind his head and leans back against the tub. “Maker, but you’re beautiful.”

Felix preens. “Thank you.”

“Stands to reason you’d be gorgeous in both forms.” He releases his cock and smoothes his wet hand down Felix’s belly, admiring the subtle musculature. “My beautiful ghost wolf.”

“Carv,” he gasps suddenly, bucking into his hand. “Please...”

“Close already? Shifting gets you hot?”

“ _You_ get me hot,” Felix says petulantly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “All the time. But especially now. Maker...”

Carver knows what he means. Everything is more intense when the moon is full, more raw, closer to the surface. The wolf breathes and growls just beneath his skin, as if ready to burst forth. “Fuck,” he bites out as the rush comes, tidal. He frees his hand from behind his head to grip Felix’s waist, pinning him in place as they jerk each other off. His forehead falls to Felix’s shoulder and he watches, dazed, as their cocks spit out murky jets of cum into the water, one after another. 

“Ahhhhhh....” Felix tips his head back, smiling as he sighs out all the air in his lungs. “That was good.” He swipes his thumb over the head of Carver’s prick and hums when he twitches in oversensitivity. “Are you warm now?”

“Hnnng. Yeah. Fuck.” He sighs long and loud, and tugs Felix down to lay against him. “C’mere. Just for a minute.”

“Okay,” Felix says, laughing against his skin. “Just for a minute.” 


	20. the message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [fight me, fever!](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141437418735/fight-me-fever-they-dont-have-to-fight-each) (they don't have to fight each other though... unless you want them to......), for [em ](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com) <3 A continuation of [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6038662/chapters/14215294).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood

“It’s my decision as Inquisitor, and that’s final!”

Carver takes a deep breath and steps back from the War Table. On the other side of it, Josie stands with her mouth slightly agape, a gentler, more ladylike version of Cullen’s slack jaw. It gives Carver some measure of satisfaction to see him so shocked. _Bet you didn’t ever think you’d see your precious protégé talking back, eh Knight-Captain_? He gains control of himself and sketches a quick bow. “If you’ll excuse me, Commander. Lady Montilyet, Lady Nightingale.”

The breeze blowing in through the collapsed wall just outside the War Room bites into his cheeks, clarifying his thoughts. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. He had known it would be difficult to convince Cullen to accept a mage tower within the confines of Skyhold—not a _Circle_ , he’d been careful to state, but a school, the terms of which he’d hammered out with Madame Vivienne—but a shouting match had not been a part of his plan.

Halfway to Josie’s office a wave of tiredness washes over him and he stops, leaning briefly against the wall and putting a hand to his head. _Maker, all I want is to sleep._ But sleep has been hard to come by these last few days. Between the nightmares from the mark and the lyrium withdrawal, not to mention the ghost prowling his chambers at night, hounding him with cold air and rustling sighs and brief, brilliant flares of light and color that he can’t quite bring himself to describe as _visions_ , he’s hardly slept at all in this last week. He’s hoping that this will be the end of it. _You see_ , he wants to tell his not-so-friendly spirit. _I’m trying._

“Inquisitor?”

He presses away from the wall and straightens up, suddenly pricklingly self-conscious. “Dorian. Er, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly.” Dorian looks him up and down very briefly—not without a flicker of interest behind his grey eyes, but mostly out of concern. “You should sit down before you fall down. You look like you’re on the verge of collapse. Perhaps a wakefulness potion? Or a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll be all right,” he says, waving him aside. “Can I help you with something?”

“Vivienne informed me you were presenting your decision to build a mage tower to your advisors today. Am I to understand that I missed the, ah…”

“Shitshow? Yeah, you did. Sorry. But I’m sure Josie can give you a recap if you wanted.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m only sorry I came too late to offer my support. Shall I help you back to your rooms, Inquisitor? You really ought to lie down and rest.”

“Thank you, but I’ll manage. It’s not _that_ far of a walk.”

Dorian shrugs. “If you insist.” He stands aside to let him pass, and Carver presses on, trying not to lean too heavily against the wall until he’s out of sight.

It’s only late afternoon, half a bell away from suppertime, and Carver is suddenly looking forward to those precious thirty minutes of peace and quiet. He mounts the stairs to his chambers with his shoulders bowed from strain. He’s grateful to Leliana for sticking up for him, but the Commander is difficult to drown out when he gets going, and Josie had been torn between the two, clearly determined to keep a neutral face. Carver scowls and shuts the door behind him with a bang. And groans.

There’s a circle drawn on the wall in what looks suspiciously like blood, a slash drawn through it sloppily. A broken circle. He is _so_ not in the mood.

“I’ve done what you asked!” he calls. “They start construction tomorrow with what we have, and they’re sending out teams of Harding’s people to track down the rest of what we need.”

There’s no answer, but there’s blood on the stairs. He can’t remember if it was there before. Little half-moons—no, footprints, like someone was walking barefoot and tracking blood behind them. He hopes to the Maker it’s all in his head, because getting blood out of the flagstones is going to be a nightmare.

He mounts the steps with one hand against the wall, head pounding, and nearly jumps out of his skin. Standing at the top, near the double-doors leading onto the balcony, is a man dressed in rags. His eyes are sad and tired, and one of them is bruised, leading to a bloody smear across his cheek, like he had a bloody nose and tried (failed) to wipe it clean. He’s dressed in a thin white shirt—or it was white, at one time, but is now yellowed with sweat and grime and stained here and there with red—and dark trousers stamped with a diamond pattern, not unlike the motif that adorns Dorian’s belt buckles. His hands are held in front of him and shackled together, but the chain drops half a score of links and breaks off around his knees. His feet are bare and bloody.

Carver rubs his eyes with one hand. He’s never seen his spirit friend so clearly before. “Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? Maker, did Leliana put something in my tea?”

The apparition doesn’t answer—not in words. Instead, a chill fills the room, erasing whatever traces of warmth the morning’s fire has left behind. Carver shivers and takes a step back. The windows darken, clouds gathering over Skyhold in a sudden squall, and he can hear a creaking, like a rusty gate in the wind.

The chain. The chain is swinging back and forth, although the spirit stands perfectly still. Carver shudders. “What do you want? I’m doing what you asked, or I’m trying—there’s been some resistance, but I’ve set it in motion—fuck!”

He ducks, barely avoiding the piece of paper that barrels by. The next one he’s ready for, and he snatches it out of the air. It’s a copy of the mage tower requisition form, but his signature at the bottom is smeared with blood.

“Can we not do this?” Carver begs, as one of the doors slams open and the gale outside finds its way in. The wind tugs at his hair like fingers, pulling at his clothes and stinging his face and hands. He lifts his arm to protect himself and jerks back at the slice of bright, hot pain that stings his forearm, sharp as a whip. Sharp as the end of a broken-off chain.

Suddenly filled with rage, he lowers his arm and charges. He passes straight through the apparition, of course, but he gains some measure of satisfaction at the way it wobbles slightly, like it was surprised by his initiative. “Come on then!” he roars, turning back around with his knees half-cocked and his hands curled into ready fists. “Fight me! Fight me, if that’s what you want, I’m _tired_ of this!”

The apparition stares at him as if taken aback. The chain still swings, but slowly, and the wind begins to die. Carver sags and stumbles to his knees. He puts his head in his hands.

“Please. I’m trying. I’m… _trying_.”

The room is finally quiet. Carver looks up through squinting eyes, afraid of what he’ll find, but the blood on the floor and the wall is gone and the doors are all closed. Sunlight streams gently through the windows, splashing multicolored patterns on the flagstone floor. And a few paces away, flickering like a dying candle, is his ghost.

“What do you want from me?” Carver whispers, sinking back on his heels. “What happened to you, that you want this so badly? Can’t you tell me?”

There is no audible answer, but the spirit hovers toward him, feet pacing but not quite touching the floor, and an echo of a memory prickles in his head like an itch he can’t quite scratch. _There are worse things than dying, Dorian_. Carver’s breath catches in his chest.

“Oh. It’s you.”


	21. might as well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [‘everyone thinks we’re banging, so we might as well just do it’](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141444289205/everyone-thinks-were-banging-so-we-might-as) sex, for [redxluna](redxluna.tumblr.com). Inspired by this (NSFW) [pic](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141437707700/cutrobin-cutrobin).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cracky drunk porn because why not

“Fuck’s sake. What a cock.”

Carver looks up from the murky depths of his beer, which he’d been eyeing suspiciously, and peers at Felix as he slides into the booth opposite him. A massively frilly pink drink follows, meandering across the table at Felix’s direction before coming to a shuddering halt right in front of him. For being such a shitty mage, Carver thinks, he uses magic an awful lot.

“What’s up?”

“Dor’s at it again. Oh Felix, those _muscles_ , you must have the absolute _best_ time in bed. I bet he can lift you over his head and fuck you one-handed!” Felix parrots his best friend’s voice with eerie accuracy before sticking his face in the drink. He comes back with a foamy pink lip and a scowl. “Why do they think we’re fucking? We’re not fucking!”

“It’s not my fault you stare at my ass all the time,” Carver says, giving up on his beer. “Can I try that?”

“I don’t stare at your ass all the time, babe, only about three-quarters of the time.” Felix kicks him under the table. “Stop guzzling, that was expensive.”

“Like you can’t afford it, daddy’s boy.”

“Shut up.” He kicks him again, but gentler. “This is the third time this week.”

“Third time what?”

“People thinking we’re fucking! Wake up, Hawke, this is serious.”

Carver sighs and pushes his beer away. It was getting warm anyway. “Who were the other two? Oh, Bull, right?”

“Bull, _and your own brother_. He slapped my ass at the pool party on Sunday and said you were a lucky bugger to have round the clock access to my _sweet peach_. Is he always so vulgar?”

“Worse, sometimes. Hey, listen.” He grabs Felix’s arm through the slight fog of inebriation. “If it makes you feel any better, your ass _is_ pretty sweet, and I would be happy to eat it for you any time you want.” He slaps a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, did I really just say that?”

Felix is snickering across the sticky table, still foamy pink from lip to nose. “You’re just as vulgar as he is. And a fucking liar.”

“I’m not a fucking liar! Why would you say that?”

“You wouldn’t eat my ass unless I held you down and sat on your face. That’s not your style.”

“You wound me. I’m an excellent eater of asses. And vaginas. But not at the same time, that’s not sanitary.”

“Is ass eating sanitary to begin with?” Felix wonders. He’s discovered his mustache and is licking it off one swathe at a time. “I feel like the answer is no.”

“Well you want it to be clean, obviously. Is your ass clean, Alexius?”

“Always,” Felix sniffs, snorting up a little bit of foam that was left over. He coughs and rubs furiously at his nose until it’s good and red, like a cherry. “You know, Hawke, all this talk of you fucking me is starting to make me jealous of myself. Where’s my nice piece of man with pretty eyes and a fat cock? Why does imaginary me get all this action and here I am on the other side of the table at this shitty bar instead of in your lap?”

Carver hesitates. “Because… we’re friends?” he ventures.

“Friends fuck all the time, right? Look at Bull and Dorian. They don’t give two shits about each other romantically but they can’t stop going at it for more than two seconds at a time. Disgusting frankly.” He folds his hands on the table, sticky though it is, and looks brightly across the top of his drink at him. “So, in the interest of public… uh… interest… want to fuck?”

Carver blinks. _I must have heard that wrong._ “Is that a trick question?”

“Not unless you consider ‘yes or no’ a trick answer.”

“Um.” He looks at Felix’s lips, pink as strawberries from being licked, and feels a hot swell of interest in his groin. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s fuck.”

///

“Fucking bloody _hell_ you fucking genius, _don’t stop what you’re doing for the love of god!_ ”

Carver grins, or tries to, but it’s hard with the lower half of his face smooshed between Felix’s ass cheeks. He also wants to say _I told you so_ , but that would require too much effort, so he settles for sticking his tongue up in there and wiggling it around. As promised, Felix is clean—almost frighteningly so—and Carver has to wonder whether he had an inkling of where this night would end. Carver certainly hadn’t. This is a complete surprise, from the way his knees are wedged against the floor of the back seat of Garrett’s rusty old Ford, to Felix’s whimpers fogging the glass, to the lovely fuzzy peach of an ass currently perched on his face. Well, technically Felix is half-reclined on the seat and not really sitting anywhere, but. Semantics.

“You have a hairy ass,” Carver remarks when he comes up for air, replacing his tongue with a finger. Felix bites down hard on his knuckle and groans.

“You like it.”

“Fuck yeah, I like it. Peach.” He winks and pinches that pert, hairy ass with his free hand, and nearly gets kicked in the face.

“Ouch! Stop that, you brute. Oh, fuck, don’t stop, _don’t stop_ …”

That’s a prostate if Carver ever felt one. He rubs it in earnest, watching with hazy approval as a pink flush suffuses Felix’s face and chest under his half-unbuttoned shirt. He’s got lube in his pocket, he remembers suddenly, an idle wishful thought that he might actually pull someone tonight. Pulling his best friend wasn’t really what he had in mind, but he can’t say he’s disappointed. Felix has the sweetest ass he’s ever laid eyes on (and he _does_ stare at it all the time, not that he’ll ever admit it), and he can’t wait to finally fuck it.

_Finally? Wait, what?_

“Get up here,” Felix gasps as soon as he sees the lube packet between Carver’s fingers. “Oh my god put your fat prick inside me.”

“Greedy fucker,” Carver tuts, even as he squirts the packet right into his hole. “I don’t have a condom.”

“Neither do I and I don’t give a fuck. You’re clean, I know you are. Well, you’re a bloody slob but that’s neither here nor—oh—oh,  Jesus— _fuck_!”

“Is that what you wanted?” he pants, rocking a little further into Felix. He feels amazing, slick and tight, and even though he’s drunk he knows enough to go slow, waiting for Felix to open under the pressure. And when he does, the slide is sweet and perfect. “Oh, Jesus. That’s the stuff.”

“Please,” Felix gasps, quietly. “Please give it to me.”

So Carver fucks him, one hand braced against the window and the other gripping the back of the seat for support while he rams into him in a sloppy rhythm. Felix braces his hands over his head to keep from getting shoved into the door and wails with every perfect thrust, which is about one in every three, and soon the car is rocking back and forth, windows getting steamy with the heat of their exertion. Carver gasps for breath and leans down.

“Give me your mouth.”

“Mmf—no!” Felix says, turning his face away. “You’ve just had your tongue inside my asshole.”

“And it tasted sooooo good.”

“Disgusting.” But Felix grabs his hair anyway, mouth pursed in preparation. Carver kisses him greedily, tongue in straight away, teeth clacking, and he tastes like cranberries and cream and shitty vodka. “Oh fuck,” Felix enunciates against his lips, “right there! Give it to me, baby, _please_ …”

Carver’s thighs are beginning to burn, but he fights through it, chasing that tantalizing orgasm that hovers just out of reach. When Felix cums it’s a surprise—he barely notices, except for the high-pitched whimper and the spatters of white that land on his belly and on the seat. Oops. Garrett will kill him.

“Pull out pull out pull out,” Felix yammers, so Carver does, at a sudden loss. “Don’t _stop_ , you idiot, I want you to cum _on_ me.”

“Oh,” Carver says, stupidly, and he starts jacking off. His legs slump, grateful for the reprieve, and he lets his chin drop to his chest with a groan. “Fuck, Fee. Why haven’t we done this sooner?”

“I have no idea. Come on, baby, I wanna see you cum all over me. Give me your load.”

“Shut the fuck up, you sound like a bad porno,” Carver says, and then he does cum after all.

They lay there for a while, tangled and sweaty, before Felix pushes him away and they stumble out into the parking lot, righting their clothes. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. Carver leans against the car and pushes his sweaty hair back from his face. _Fuck_.

“Hey.” Felix saunters up to him, shirt still half undone. He missed a fleck of cum when he was wiping down with the napkins Gare had in the glove compartment, and it glistens like an accusation in the dip of his sternum as he grabs Carver by the collar and yanks him down to his level. “Why the long face?”

“Well, we fucked. To make everyone else happy. So now what?”

Felix licks his own lips, then Carver’s, shoving him against the car and sucking face until they’re both breathless and giddy all over again. “Fuck me again tomorrow,” he whispers against Carver’s cheek. “Or maybe I’ll fuck you. _Peach_.” He steps back, smirking, and grabs Carver’s ass before turning away. “Come on, we should pay our tabs like good citizens before taking your brother’s car back to yours.”

“Mine? Why mine?”

“Becauuuusssse,” Felix drawls loudly, “I’m too drunk to drive, and I want you to make me pancakes in the morning. After we fuck. Again. That’s number two. Number three can be after breakfast, if you want.” He turns, listing a little on the steps to the bar. “Are you coming?”

Carver grins, suddenly lightheaded. _Am I coming?_ “Fuck yeah.”


	22. rock steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write trans Felix for ages, so I decided to just jump in and go for it. This is [against the wall](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/141499586460/10-for-fever-p), for [damnable-rogue](damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) aka the super awesome and talented[mywordsflyup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/)!!

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , how are you doing that?”

Carver can’t answer, considering where his mouth is currently buried, but the sly twinkle in his blue eyes tells the whole story. Felix presses one hand flat against the wall for stability and the other finds its way into Carver’s hair, tugging at his scalp and then down, pressing his face closer. Slowly, he relaxes—Carver has him. Carver always has him. Kneeling on the floor, both of Felix’s thighs slung over his shoulders, he’s more like a rock than a man, immovable, supporting Felix’s weight against the wall without even breaking a sweat. Well, maybe a little bit of sweat. Felix draws a shaking thumb along the dewy arch of Carver’s brow and shudders, nudging close.

“God, you’re good. Fuck—Carver your _tongue_ …”

Carver hums, and the vibrations travel all the way up through him, turning his muscles to jelly. Felix clamps his teeth into his lower lip and whimpers. Carver’s tongue is a thing of beauty, lapping softly but implacably, keeping a perfect rhythm right where he needs it. And his arms, bulging with muscle, supporting him like he weighs nothing at all—it’s enough to make a man lose his goddamn mind.

“Carv,” he whispers, as he draws back enough to tease with the slightest flicker of his tongue. “Baby, I’m close.”

He can see his coat at the end of the hall, crumpled on the floor. They hadn’t been able to wait. Carver had been teasing him all night, soft touches on his wrist at dinner, one socked foot sliding up his ankle under the table, a soft good-night kiss at the door turning into… this. Carver’s face between his thighs and his entire body flushed with need, the wall hard and unyielding against his back. He might have bruises tomorrow, where Carver’s hands steady his waist, but he doesn’t mind. They’ll just be something to remember this by.

Carver isn’t letting up, and the edge is barreling closer, like a train skimming ever nearer to the end of the tracks. Felix digs his fingers into Carver’s hair and pulls him back, licking his lips instinctively. Carver’s mouth is plump and red and gleaming, and curled just a little at one side in a smirk. _Bastard._ “Did you hear me, darling?” Felix whispers, forcing himself to speak evenly. “I’m almost there.”

“I heard,” Carver rumbles hoarsely. “I don’t care. Make a mess of me.”

Jesus. Permission granted, Felix shoves his head back down and tips his head back, his sighs and groans echoing to the ceiling. “Oh my god. Carver, your fucking _mouth_ …”

Carver hums, and the slope of his shoulders shifts a little bit under him. Felix grabs at the wall fruitlessly, fingernails scraping against the antique paper, and then his belly tightens when he feels a gentle, inquisitive finger probing between his cheeks. He relaxes, focusing on the hot pressure of Carver’s mouth, and when the finger slips shallowly inside him it’s enough to get him there.

He shouts—just once, sharp and strained, belly tightening and his ankles digging unforgivingly into Carver’s broad back. He looks down. Carver places one last kiss to the inside of his thigh, gentle in the oversensitive aftermath, and looks up, smiling. His face is shiny, flecks of liquid caught in his eyelashes and dripping down his chin and throat, and his nice crisp collar is fucking _drenched_. Felix shudders, half embarrassed, half impressed with himself. He smooths his thumb over Carver’s eyebrow to wipe it clean and presses the digit between Carver’s lips. Carver sucks it down eagerly, tongue curling against his nail bed.

“You’re fantastic,” Felix breathes, entirely sincere. “And you really, _really_ need to shower.”

Carver releases his thumb with a _pop_. “All for a good cause. Are you all right, darling? Can you stand?”

Felix snorts. “Well if I can’t, it’s your fault.”

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to carry you.”

“To the bathroom,” Felix reminds him, bracing himself against the wall as Carver ducks out from under his weight and stands on stiff knees. “I need a wipe-down, and you…” His hand finds its way to the nice bulge in Carver’s trousers and squeezes, dragging a whimper out of him. “You need… _something_.”

“Mmm. I need a kiss,” Carver says. He presses Felix back against the wall and runs his damp mouth along the curve of his neck. “Please.”

“As if I could say no after an orgasm like that.” Felix grabs his wet face in both hands and kisses him soundly, humming at the slow, hot trail of Carver’s hands along his back. “Bathroom,” he whispers when they part, though he makes no move to get going. Carver nips his lower lip.

“Shall I carry you there?”

“If you can walk with that bloody great tree stump you’re toting around in your pants.”

“That’s your fault, not mine,” Carver says cheerfully, popping the button open on his trousers. He reaches inside and gives himself a squeeze, adjusting the angle with a sigh. “I love you,” he adds, almost an afterthought, but it still means as much now as it did the first time. Felix slaps him on the rump to get him going, admiring his musculature under his clothes as he goes.

“Love you, too. Now get thee to a shower, before my cum dries and sticks you to your shirt.”

Carver throws a smirk at him over his shoulder. “Or you could just peel it off me… with your teeth. _Ouch_ , okay, I’m going, you don’t have to smack my ass again!”

“You liked it,” Felix tuts, and follows him to the bathroom with the warmth of satisfaction brewing pleasantly in his belly.


	23. pins and needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [em](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com), [you drunkenly paid for an appointment to get a tattoo at my parlor and didnt want to lose the money but the day has come and i have to hold your hand while someone else tattoos you” au BONUS AND DOUBLE BONUS AHHH FEVER](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/142074544610/you-drunkenly-paid-for-an-appointment-to-get-a)." Not sure I got the double bonus in but there was an attempt?? lol

Dorian clears his throat loudly, drawing Felix’s attention away from the sketch he was working on. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls, head tipped toward the door. The bell rings just as Felix turns to look, and  he can’t help but laugh a little. Through the glass door of their small downtown tattoo parlor, a tall, broad young man in shouldering his way inside, head down, with a small gaggle of people cheering him on from the pavement outside. Dorian leans across the counter in welcome, flashing his most dazzling smile, and Felix hides a smirk and slides his pencil behind his ear. This ought to be interesting.

“Er, hello,” the man says hesitantly, just short of shuffling his feet like a schoolboy. “I’m, um, Carver Hawke, I came in a week ago?”

“Oh yes. I remember,” Dorian says, hip cocked just so. Felix rolls his eyes and pushes his chair back, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“I think this one is mine, Dorian, go flash your face jewelry somewhere else. Let me see. Hawke… Hawke...” He flips busily through his clipboard as if he isn’t perfectly aware of who the man is. Dorian huffs something about ink-covered upstarts and sashays to the back of the shop to brood, and Felix finds the right page. “Ah yes. Carver Hawke. Came in last week around nine PM just before close and insisted on putting down a hundred quid for a tattoo design and consultation. And you were roaring drunk at the time, if I recall correctly.” He checks his watch, and the little twinkling gold feather-shaped hour hand that Dorian designed himself. Far from being a talented worker of needles, Dorian has the precise eye of a jeweler than Felix, a man who works in skin and ink, can appreciate. “Cutting it kind of fine, aren’t you? Another two hours and you wouldn’t have been able to get your money back.”

“I’m. Er, not here to get my money back,” Carver mumbles.

Felix looks up, brows lifted high above the rims of his wire-framed glasses. “You’re what?”

“It—it was a bet, okay? The money belongs to my brother, actually. He bet I wouldn’t get a tattoo on my ass, and if I don’t do it he’s just going to get the money back. So.” He shrugs, somehow helpless and amused at the same time. And there’s a self-deprecating twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes that Felix admires.

He sighs. “All right. What do you want, then? I don’t have anything penciled in for the rest of the day, but if you want something complicated it’s going to have to wait.” Secretly he’s hoping Carver will stay. It’s been a slow day, and he could use the entertainment. Not to mention the bloke is absolutely gorgeous. Obviously muscular under his clothes, with a gentle manner that belies his impressive frame. Felix is picky about his men, but he has to admit that this might be one he would happily go on his knees for.

“Well…” He twists, looking over his shoulder. The small crowd has dispersed—his friends egging him on, Felix assumes—but one bloke remains behind, a shorter, bearded version of the man in front of him. The brother, Felix assumes. Carver flips him off and turns back while he man outside doubles over laughing. “I’ll take a mabari on my ass.”

Felix keeps a professional façade, although it’s difficult, particularly with the choking sounds coming from the back. He clears his throat. “Right. Do you want me to design something special—”

“Whatever you have in stock is fine. I just want to get this over with.” He grimaces. “Sorry, I just—I’m a little nervous. I’ve never had a tattoo before.”

“Hell of a first one,” Felix remarks kindly as he pulls a few binders from the shelves under the cash register. “Any particular reason for the mabari?”

“Well, it’s a Ferelden symbol, you know. For strength.” He rubs his left eyebrow awkwardly, and Felix melts a little more. Maker help him but this man is _adorable_.

“Here are some of the options we have.” He flips to the appropriate pages, spreading the binders out across the counter. “Just so you’re aware, the, ah, posterior can be more painful for some people than other areas. Considering this is your first it’s hard to judge.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m getting a mabari then, huh?” Carver says, grinning with sudden irrepressible humor. It lights up his entire face, and Felix is taken aback to feel the quick double thump of his heart in his chest. “I like this one I think.” He taps his finger on a design that pulls from some Chasind elements, stylized but elegant, almost like a symbol for a rite of passage. Thankfully it’s not _actually_ of Chasind design, or Felix would feel compelled to ask if he has any Chasind blood to prompt such a choice. He’ll do a lot of things when it comes to his job, but ethnic tattoos on tourists is not one of them.

“All right,” Felix says. “Have a seat over there and I’ll get everything ready.”

A few minutes later, he calls Carver into the back room where he does his tattoos on more personal areas. Carver keeps fidgeting, obviously more nervous than before, and Felix talks soothingly as he instructs him on removing his clothing. “Shirt can stay on, smalls can be kept on for now but you’ll need to pull your jeans down to your knees at least.”

With defiance written in the set of his lower lip, Carver kicks off his jeans entirely and folds them neatly, setting them on the counter where Felix instructs. When he’s situated in the chair, face down with his ass tilted up, Felix puts a gentle hand on the small of his back. “Now I’ll need you to pull your smalls down to just below your rear. Or I can do it for you, if you prefer.”

“You can,” Carver says, voice muffled into the towel.

With a delicate touch, Felix folds the waistband down, leaving it bunched up under him to preserve some of his modesty. He really has a fabulous ass, Felix has to admit. Round and pert, as muscular as the rest of him, with a sprinkling of freckles across the pale skin. In any other context he might be tempted to smack it. “Left or right?” he asks, reaching for the straight razor. It’s a bit old fashioned of him, perhaps, but _Pins and Needles_ has that sort of aesthetic.  

“What do you think? Professionally speaking.”

Professionally speaking, Felix thinks this ass is too beautiful and perfect to ruin with a silly mabari, of all things. But that’s not his decision to make. “Left,” he says, somewhat arbitrarily, and Carver grunts his assent. “I’m going to shave the area now. Some people find this a bit odd.”

“Hmm. Okay, shoot.”

Aside from one flinch right at the beginning, Carver holds still for the entire process, though Felix catches a glimpse of the pinkness in his face and is immensely charmed by it. When the area in question is shaved and disinfected, he transfers the ink to the skin and gives his area one more wipes down. “If you want you can listen to music or something, that sometimes helps take your mind off it. Or I can play something for you on my phone.”

Carver is breathing a little more heavily, now; Felix can see his fists clenching where they rest on the seat. “Um. My phone is in my jeans, if you want to just put it on shuffle. There’s a lot of trash on there from my college days but it’s loud and it’ll numb my brain at least.”

Felix can’t help but chuckle. “All right. Passcode?”

“Here.” He reaches out shaking hand out and, with Felix’s steadying touch, unlocks it with his thumb. A few seconds later, some kind of thrash metal comes on, and Felix sets it on the counter with a delicate wince. Well, it’s not _his_ comfort he’s concerned about. “Sorry it’s awful,” Carver says over the tinny jumble. “I don’t know why I keep music on my phone anymore, I just use internet radio these days.”

“As do I,” Felix agrees, thinking longingly of his collection of Antivan classical guitar tracks on Spotify. It’s his own fault, he supposes. He disinfects his gloved hands again, just to be sure, and picks up the gun.

The buzz isn’t as loud as the music, but it’s still palpable, more like a hum vibrating through the little curtained alcove than a real sound. Carver’s entire back tenses, all the muscles thrown into sharp relief. Felix puts his free hand on his sacrum, feeling like he’s soothing a startled horse.

“I’m going to start now. It’s a simple design so this should take about thirty minutes give or take—tell me when you need a break and we can stop. Like I said, it’s a sensitive area, and there’s no shame in needing to rest.”

Carver nods, gulping visibly if not audibly over the music and the hum of the needle gun. “Fire away.”

Felix is actually quite impressed with his stamina. He doesn’t flinch or curse, just grits his teeth and hangs onto the chair for about twenty straight minutes before he asks to stop a minute. Felix obliges, turning off the gun and setting it aside for a minute. Carvers hands are shaking around the edges of the chair and he gives in to his instincts and touches his shoulder gently.

“Hey. How you holding up?”

“Um. You know. I’m surviving,” Carver says, a little strangled. “Sorry, I’m just—I needed a break.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re doing really well for your first time. Er… you know what I mean.”

Carver snorts. “Yeah. Now _that_ would not be my first rodeo.” He wipes at the sweat beading on his brow and Felix hands him a tissue. “Thanks. Um. Could I ask a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Could you, um.” His fingers flex uncertainly. “You know what, never mind. It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Felix says, already getting an inkling of what Carver wants to ask. “Listen, it’s just you and me back here. Strictly confidential. Anything that happens back here that you don’t want to know, it stays here.”

“Even your boyfriend?”

“My what? Oh, Dorian’s not my boyfriend. God, I can’t even imagine. He’s too high-maintenance for me,” Felix laughs. The music grinds away, sounding more like a small group of people banging on tin garbage pails than a song, and he gives in, turning it down a little. “Look, I won’t lie. You’re cute. And I don’t hit on my clients, but if you need me to hold your hand a minute I won’t be offended and I won’t be averse.”

Carver cranes his neck around to stare at him, bug-eyed. “How did you know?”

“Not my first rodeo,” Felix parrots, smiling. Carver holds his hand out, and Felix takes it, stripping off his glove first so that they’re skin to skin. “You know,” he says after a moment, “tattoos aren’t for everyone. If this isn’t your thing…”

“What? You’ll stop and I’ll be left forever with half a dog on my ass?”

Felix snorts. “Well, maybe not _that_. I was going to suggest, perhaps, stopping and coming back later. Do it in stages.” It’s kind of a pathetic suggestion to make, at this point—he’s over halfway done, and generally more seasoned people can make it hours before needing to stop and come back another day—but he feels bad about the whole situation. “I just meant, if someone is pressuring you into doing this, it doesn’t seem ethical to keep going. On my part.”

“No. I’m going to do this. I have to.” He huffs a watery laugh. “You must think I’m so stupid. And a pansy.”

“I don’t think you’re either of those things,” Felix says gently—and truthfully. He squeezes Carver’s enormous hand, ignoring the sweat. “People get tattoos for all sorts of reasons, and it’s not my job to judge them on the _why_. Now, the design…” He waits a beat. “That was a joke.”

“Oh!” There’s a burst of delayed laughter, and if it’s a bit ragged around the edges, at least it sounds sincere. “Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” Another hand squeeze. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

Carver cranes over his shoulder, but there’s no way he’s able to get a decent view of his progress. “How much longer?” he asks plaintively.

Felix considers. “Five minutes. And that’s being generous.” The current song grinds to a halt and he clears his throat, reaching for Carver’s phone.

“If you don’t mind, I have a suggestion…”

“Oh, sure. Sorry, is it bothering you? It’s kind of giving me a headache, honestly, but it’s better than… the other thing.”

Felix ducks his head to hide a smile. “Sometimes it’s easier to block our pain with beauty than with more pain. No offense.”

“Oh, no offense taken. I don’t even know why most of that music is still on there, honestly. I’m not much of a metalhead anymore.”

“What a relief,” Felix quips, scrolling his own phone for something appropriate. He settles on some ambient strings, a qunari sextet he discovered recently through Dorian. The rhythms and unique instrumentation is just enough to toe the line between classical and folk. He sets his favorite album on shuffle and starts up the gun again.

The rest of the tattooing is fairy painless—so to speak—and it’s over in a few minutes. Felix swabs him down gently and, at Carver’s request, snaps a photo on Carver’s phone before covering the fresh ink with plastic wrap and easing his briefs back up his hips.

“Take a minute,” he says as he disinfects his work area and disposes of everything in a biohazardous waste container. “I’ll go sort out the payment and everything.”

When Carver emerges from the back room a few minutes later, he’s moving with the stiff gait of someone who’s trying to pretend they’re not walking stiffly. He pastes on a smile and braces his thighs against the low counter. “So. What’s the damage?”

Felix wordlessly slides a sugar tablet across the counter at him. If that mountain of a man passes out in here he’s never going to get him up again by himself. “You put a hundred down, but the cost of the actual work comes to seventy. I can put the rest back on the card that was used, which I’m assuming you _don’t_ want, or I could give it to you in cash, and it’s up to you what you want to do with it.”

Carver rubs the back of his neck. “How about we make it a tip? Can you do that?”

“Sure. But, um. A thirty dollar tip for a quick job like that? Are you sure?”

“Didn’t feel quick to me,” Carver says sheepishly. “And come on. You held my hand. That was definitely above and beyond the call of duty.”

“It wasn’t exactly a hardship,” Felix murmurs. He prints out the receipt and passes it over.

“Oh, that’s right. You think I’m cute.” Carver winks at him and signs the receipt with a flourish, tip included. And then something else, small and neatly printed right at the bottom. A number. “Well, if my ass ever recovers, maybe I’ll come back in for more.”

“You should know that I normally treat asses with _much_ more kindness,” Felix hears himself say. He slaps a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, that was very unprofessional.”

“Who cares? I’m paid up, the contract is over. And my number’s on that receipt, if you want. I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself once already, might as well make it two.”

“You have no need to be embarrassed, trust me,” Felix says, eyes drifting down his body. “Er. Sorry, again.”

“No need to be sorry. And hey, no pressure.” He indicates the receipt. “But for the record, I think you’re cute, too.”

“Maybe I’ll text you later? We close in an hour.”

“I look forward to it.” He bites his lip and smiles, and Felix feels his belly swoop. Dorian is never going to let him live this down.


	24. take me home tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“we were both at this party and you were the designated driver but i was too drunk to give you my address so i woke up in your bed and commented on how you were way out of my league before realizing we didnt sleep together”](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/143488514875/we-were-both-at-this-party-and-you-were-the) au FEVER for [professionallilbrocarverhawke](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com) <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How Felix and Carver from [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6038662/chapters/14492677) chapter met. Disclaimer: I'm cis, so please let me know if anything needs changing and I'll do it.

Felix knows the night is over when Dorian pulls him aside, speckled red from jawline to the deep divot of his collarbones exposed by the low-slung V of his skintight shirt, and whispers, sticky-breathed with vodka, “I think I’m gonna be going home with someone.”

“You _think_ ,” he parrots, looking Dorian up and down, but his friend isn’t really paying attention. His eyes have already drifted back across the bar to the sheepish, curly-haired jock with the burly arms and the sweet smile. Dorian is such a sucker for the nice boys. “You’re such a sucker for nice boys,” he tells him, nearly shouting to be heard over the sudden throb of the bass drop that rattles his teeth like dice in a cup. And his brains. He hates being designated driver for this reason—the music is always too loud and everyone else is always too drunk. Sober Felix isn’t much fun.

“Go ahead and leave whenever you’re ready,” Dorian yells in his ear. He runs a fingertip over his perfectly coiffed mustache— _how_ he keeps it so pristine through a night of drinking and laughing and making out, Felix will never understand—and tugs his neckline a little lower before sauntering away. Felix rolls his eyes and turns his nose toward the exit.

Felix was ready two hours ago, if he’s honest, but he won’t tell Dorian that. They’re both at the peak of their Big Gay whatever, Felix trailing just a few steps behind as he always is, and he doesn’t have the heart to stomp on any of Dorian’s excitement and glee at being allowed to exist outside the iron fist of his father’s social sphere. It’s a luxury they’ve both had to fight for. Even Felix, whose loving parents often seemed miles ahead of Halward’s horrible prejudices, had to fight. And now that he’s allowed to be himself, allowed to do whatever he wants, all he wants is to go home.

“I’m so fucking boring,” he sighs as he collects his coat and keys from the cloakroom. The attendant wishes him a happy something-or-other—he hasn’t got a complete handle on the holidays in Ferelden yet—and he smiles vaguely in response before stepping out the door.

And nearly falling flat onto his face. Someone is sitting on the steps right outside the club, and Felix pitches forward, saved only by the grace of a sturdy handrail. He curses in Tevene and rights himself as the person babbles vaguely comprehensible apologies.

“It’s fine,” he says forcibly, just to get the guy to shut up. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” is the slurred response. “Jus’ waitin’ to sober up a little bit so I can get home.”

“Are you driving yourself?” Felix asks, suddenly concerned. He stands at the bottom of the steps and looks up at the guy, just as broad-shouldered and pale as Dorian’s new Fereldan beau, but with a mop of dark hair and the prettiest pair of robins-egg eyes he’s ever seen. _Well_ _then_.

“Oh, no,” the guy says. His breath is beery but his pretty eyes are sad, and it makes Felix want to hug him. Or maybe blow him. _Not the time, Alexius, you’re busy being a wet blanket._ “My ride left an hour ago and I did’n notice. So. I’m, um, gonna walk home. It’s not that far, I jus’ don’t wanna get lost. Like this.” He waves one enormous hand in his own general direction, indicating his own state of inebriation.

“How far is ‘not that far?’ I’m just headed off myself, I could give you a lift?”

The guy blinks up at him woefully. “Really? I mean… I don’ want to impose…”

“Don’t even worry about it. C’mon, my car’s close.”

He’s not sure how, but he manages to get an arm around his guy’s ribs and haul him upright. For a split second he’s deadweight, and then he gets his feet under him like a clumsy, overgrown puppy and they’re saved from collapsing in an ungainly heap on the pavement. Gradually they make their way to Felix’s car, and he finds himself buckling the guy into the passenger seat, trying not to ogle the way his pecs strain the thin fabric of his shirt. It’s a nice black heather Henley, with two little buttons at the neck that don’t even attempt to hold the fabric together. Felix wants to peel it back and find out what the skin-to-body-hair ratio is, but he refrains. Taking advantage of someone who’s drunk off their ass is definitely not his modus operandi.

He finally climbs into the driver’s seat and whips out his phone. “What’s your address?”

Silence. When he looks over, the stranger’s eyes are closed and his mouth is hanging just a little bit open.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He pokes him a few times in the meat of his shoulder, and only succeeds in pushing him over until he’s slumped against the window. “Hey. Mister. I need to know where to take you.”

Nothing, except a faint, erstwhile snore. Felix sighs and puts his phone away. If he wasn’t such a bloody good Samaritan he would dump the guy out on his ass, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. The bloke’s gorgeously muscled body doesn’t hurt, either.

He starts the car and resigns himself to his fate. “Right. Guess you’re coming home with me.”

///

Two things coalesce in Carver’s mind when he wakes up: first, that he’s got a terrific hangover and that his mouth tastes like something died inside it, and two, that he’s not at home in his own bed. He’s in _a_ bed, but it certainly doesn’t belong to him.

He rolls over and squints at the bedside table. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers waiting for him, which he downs, and then he sits up to take stock. It’s a very nice bed—a very nice _room_ —with soft sheets that smell faintly of cloves and beeswax, and a tasteful duvet in a black and tan Tevinter-style pattern. The walls are textured brick, the floor a polished dark wood with a faux-fur rug taking up part of it, and the translucent curtains drape to the ground to make the ceiling look even higher than it already is. Carver tries not to gape. Maker, did he pull a rich toff last night?

There’s a clatter from the next room, and he suddenly realizes he can smell bacon frying and hear someone humming, a light tenor that rings zero bells. He eases out of bed gingerly, finding his clothes neatly folded on a chair against the wall, keys and phone on top. His phone is dead, but at least he still has it. And his wallet in his jeans pocket, just as he had left it. Considerate bloke.

As he moves about, checking his belongings and slipping into the adjoining master bath to check his appearance—not terrible, all things considered—he checks himself over for signs of a wild night. Aside from the hangover, which is quickly subsiding after another glass of water, there’s no marks on his body and no telltale twinge in his arse. He could have topped, he supposes, or maybe just blowjobs before bed. Still, it feels a little odd. He uses the toilet and washes his hands and face, twisting damp fingers through his hair to placate it, and decides it’s time to face the music.

As he makes to leave, his eye catches on a strange thing: a bathrobe hanging on a hook on the door, though it looks like more of a poncy dressing gown all silky and embroidered in muted masculine tones, with a piece of paper stuck to the collar with a pin that says _wear me :)_ in a looping, elegant hand.

“Nice of him,” Carver mutters. When he slips it on, it’s almost comically tight in the shoulders, but it closes in the front and covers the important bits—though if there were shenanigans of any kind last night, he doubts it matters all that much—so he ties the sash and pokes his head out into the main room.

It’s practically a studio apartment, he sees now, a very nice one, with tasteful furniture arranged around the enormous windows and a modest table and chairs set out like a makeshift dining room on the other side. Beyond all that is the kitchen, resplendent with shiny brass cookware and a bar separating it from the living space. And in the kitchen is his host: a slim man with dark skin and darker hair, dressed in a baggy t-shirt and boxer briefs, humming softly to himself as he pokes at the hob with a spatula until steam coats his round tortoiseshell glasses in a pane of white. Carver clears his throat.

The man startles and turns, and oh, Maker, he’s even better looking than he could tell from the side Snub nose, a shadow of stubble around his jaw, eyes greener than grass behind his glasses as they clear of fog. He’s slim but muscular, like a swimmer or a cyclist, with strong collarbones and a soft chest that sends a frisson of dismay through him—did he just burst out here without giving the bloke a chance to make himself presentable?

 _If you slept with him it’s probably not an issue_ , he reminds himself, even though he still can’t recall a shred of last night no matter how hard he tries. _Maker, I’m such an asshole_.

“Good morning,” his host says brightly before he can wallow any further in his pessimism. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but I made breakfast if you want some?”

“Er, yeah. I’m starving.” He moves hesitantly through the room, feeling like a bull in a china shop, and breathes a sigh of relief when the bloke’s bottle-green scrutiny is turned back to the stove. _Get it out now, before you dig yourself deeper._ “Um. Look, I… I’m really sorry, but I don’t really remember… last night. At all. And, um,” his throat clicks to a stop when the other man turns back around, eyebrows lifting over his glasses. Carver coughs slightly and stops on the other side of the bar, curls his hands around the back of a stool to ground himself. “I don’t want to be rude, because dear Maker I have no idea how drunk me managed to pull someone as gorgeous as you, but everything that happened after midnight is gone. So.”

He’s blushing something fierce, now, and staring at his own white-knuckled hands when the gas clicks off and the man laughs softly. “That’s very kind of you to say, but don’t worry. Nothing happened last night. I was going to take you home but you fell asleep in my car, so.” He shrugs, lifting the hem of his tee briefly, and gives a self-deprecating smile. “I brought you to my place instead. And for the record, I slept on the couch. I try not to make a habit of taking advantage of people who are blackout drunk.”

“Just bring them home and make them breakfast, apparently,” he shoots back without thinking. The man laughs, eyes crinkling up and his teeth white against his brown skin. Carver’s belly flip-flops.

“Only the pretty ones,” he says, eyes lingering on the bare stretch of skin exposed by the dressing gown’s gaping collar. Carver feels himself turn red all the way to his hairline.

“Oh. Well. That’s good.”

“Quite.” He’s still smiling, though it’s clear he’s trying to bite it back, modulate it into something more socially acceptable. Carver wishes he wouldn’t—he doesn’t even know his name, but he knows he has the loveliest smile he’s ever seen. “I’m Felix, by the way.”

“Carver. Nice to meet you. And… thanks. I really owe you.”

Felix quirks an eyebrow. “For kidnapping you? Unintentionally, of course, but still.”

Carver shakes his head, drawn reluctantly into a grin. “For letting me sleep in your bed. And feeding me breakfast. And this.” He plucks at the dressing gown, feeling a little warm under the collar. “I just hope I don’t pop a seam.”

“If you do it would be worth it,” Felix mutters, a little pink in the face himself. “Er—help yourself to the fridge, there’s water and juice, and champagne if you felt like a mimosa. And there’s coffee on the counter, or I could make espresso in a minute if you’d rather.”

“Coffee’s fine,” Carver says faintly, charmed at how flustered he’s turned in the wake of the initial awkwardness. He circles the bar and tries not to stare at Felix’s long, muscular legs as he hunts down a mug and pours himself a cup. It’s clearly a Tevinter blend, tinged with a hint of rum and cinnamon and strong enough to scorch the hairs in his nostrils, but it’s delicious and he doesn’t dare cut it with cream in case Felix is a purist. Ridiculous, considering the poor man had to deal with blackout Carver, but he finds he wants to impress him all the same.

Breakfast is… a little odd, but delicious. Felix is painfully Tevinter, from the roundness of his vowels to the way he fixes their eggs, poached to perfection and served with thinly sliced avocado, crumbled bacon, a tomato-garlic-honey chutney, and a tangy hollandaise sauce that has Carver blinking back tears at the spicy kick lingering in the aftertaste. Felix apologizes profusely—“I tried to make it mild, but I didn’t want it to be _bland_ either…”—but Carver waves him off and demolishes his plate, drinking copious amounts of water to make up for the heat.

They eat at the bar, knees bumping as they chat, and when Felix gets up to make mimosas, apparently unconcerned about his state of undress, Carver finds himself talking about his brother.

“It’s why I was at the bar last night,” he explains, watching his fluid movements as Felix mixes champagne and orange juice (fresh squeezed, from a mason jar), topping them with a little bit of grenadine. “He’s getting married, sort of. It was his stag night.”

“What do you mean ‘sort of’ married?” Felix asks. He sounds genuinely interested without being nosy, and it’s easy to answer honestly.

“They don’t believe in marrying under the eyes of the state—legally, or whatever. Or she doesn’t. They’ve already been living together for ages, anyway, they have a kid and everything. This, the stag night and the little ceremony tomorrow, is just to placate our Mum.” He accepts the mimosa with a nod, and their fingers brush in the exchange, loosening his tongue. “Normally I don’t drink that much, but.” He shrugs and contemplates the flute with an unhappy twist to his mouth that he can’t quite shake. “I used to think I was in love with her—my brother’s wife. Fiancée. Whatever. I thought I was going to be the one marrying her.”

Felix makes a small noise of compassion in his throat as he retakes his seat. “That must be difficult.”

“I mean, it shouldn’t be. They’ve been together for years, and I’m… well, gay.” He huffs a self-conscious laugh. “But, y’know, when I was younger… I’ve pictured it so many times. A white wedding, a bunch of kids, the whole deal. I don’t really _want_ any of that anymore, but this whole stupid rigmarole, the stag night and whatnot, just… brings it back, a little. The nostalgia.” He takes a sip, and it’s the perfect balance of sweet and dry, balancing the strength of the coffee with a delicate honeysuckle-like aroma. “Anyway. Thanks, for last night. And today.” He forces himself to meet Felix’s eyes and wonders when that crystalline gaze became so familiar. “I really appreciate it.”

“I was happy to do it,” Felix insists, accepting the change of topic without blinking. “Please, don’t even think on it.”

They chat a little while longer, talking about Felix’s background in Tevinter, and eventually Carver starts to get antsy, worried that he’s trespassing on his time. They dress independently of one another, and Felix walks him to the door. _A proper gentleman_ , he thinks, and he’s suddenly desperately afraid that he’s never going to see him again.

“Look,” he says with the door half-open and his heart in his throat, “I really am grateful for all this. Maybe I can—I can get you coffee sometime, to make it up to you?”

Felix beams, and the butterflies in his stomach take flight. “I’d like that. Give me your number?”

He does, wishing his own phone weren’t dead so he could make sure to get Felix’s in turn, and a few minutes later he’s standing on the pavement outside the apartment building, blinking away the bright midmorning sun and still tasting champagne on the back of his tongue. It all feels a bit like a dream. By the time he makes it home and plugs in his phone he’s almost convinced himself none of it really happened. But then his phone turns on, and after an agonizing wait while it boots up, there’s a new message waiting in his inbox.

_hey, it’s felix :)_ _coffee at Mae’s on fifth street, 3 o’clock?_

Carver grins and fires off a quick _yes!_ before bounding to the shower. Headache be damned, the rest of today is going to be _brilliant_.


	25. going in blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [your friend set you up on a blind date and i happened to be eating alone so you thought you were meeting me and you were cute so i went along with it but you just got a text from said friend that they're sorry your date stood you up and now i have some explaining to do.](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/143545702955/your-friend-set-you-up-on-a-blind-date-and-i) \- FeVer for [earlgreyer1](earlgreyer1.tumblr.com)

 

Carver is hip-deep in edits for his latest batch of poetry when the chair across the table scrapes back and a stranger sits down, flushed and breathless, with a bright red scarf around his neck and apologies already falling from his lips in a jumble.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, I hope you weren’t waiting long. I’m Felix, by the way, but you probably already knew that. I was caught up at a shop because I said I’d wear a red scarf but I couldn’t find it for the life of me this morning. And I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. Dorian told me but I have the worst memory, if I don’t write it down it’s gone a minute later.” He finally stops to take a breath, bright-eyed behind round tortoiseshell glasses and a little pink with nervousness and the chill. “Anyway, how are you?”

Carver’s brain is a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, especially when he’s absorbed in his work, but for once he has a pretty clear picture of what’s going on. This Felix person thinks he’s someone else—someone he was supposed to meet without knowing precisely what he looked like. And he’s nervous, though he hides it well, evidenced in the way he nibbles his lower lip and clasps his fingers together, laced tightly on the edge of the glass table. It’s a bit chilly out this late in the summer, right on the cusp of autumn, and Carver opens his mouth and the words fall out, just as if he was a character in one of his stories.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Did you want to move inside? I know it’s a little cold out. And I’m Carver, by the way.”

“Oh no, this is all right. Nice to meet you. Um.” He looks at Carver’s tattered journal, all ruffled with its layers of red scribbles and post-it notes in a token attempt at organization. “Doing a little light reading?”

“Sort of. My manuscript. Just keeping busy.” He quickly shuffles it into some sort of order and tucks it back into his briefcase. “Did you want to get coffee?” Thank goodness the waitress had just come by for his own empty cup, or he would have had even more explaining to do.

“Sure. Manuscript?” he asks in the same breath, rising to follow him into the coffee shop. “Are you a writer then?”

“Sort of. I’ve written a few books, but I’ve been more interested in poetry lately. It’s more… raw. Expressive.” He clears his throat and risks a question as they wait in line, the floor under his feet feeling just a little bit off-kilter. He’s going to be in so much trouble when this Felix bloke finds out the truth, but he’s in too deep to back out now. “What do you do?”

“Oh, did Dorian not tell you? Typical. I’m a professor of higher mathematics at Minrathous University. I’m on sabbatical right now, though, which is why he’s decided it’s the perfect time to set me up with someone.” He laughs, nervous and self-deprecating, and Carver feels himself melt. _Dammit._

“Been a while then?” Carver asks easily. “I’m only just back on the market myself. It’s not as easy as I remember it.”

“It really isn’t! Seems like everything is easier when you’re younger. Or maybe we were just more stupid.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” he agrees, and steps up to the counter. “Do you know what you’d like?”

“Oh, Maker, I haven’t even been reading the menu. You go ahead.” He’s already fumbling in his jacket for his wallet, but Carver puts a hand on his arm.

“I’ve got it. Take your time.”

Lace is still behind the counter from when she took his order half an hour ago, and her eyes are nearly popping out of her skull to see this fascinating interaction. Carver gives her a _look_ , and she puts on her most expressionless smile, acting like a stranger instead of his twin sister’s girlfriend. “Hello, welcome to the Hightown Café. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a tea, please. Cinnamon rooibos latte with a shot of caramel.”

“Coming right up.” She pokes the order into her computer slowly, one eye on Felix’s deliberation. “Do you know what you’d like, sir?”

“Erm. I’ve never been here before, actually, so I’m a bit lost.” He turns to Carver with that blinding smile. “The tea sounds quite good, do you recommend it?”

“It’s delicious. You could try some of mine, if you like.”

“I’ll trust your judgement.”

Lace clears her throat, looking between them, and Carver forces himself to tear his eyes away from Felix’s button nose. Is he dreaming? What kind of good fortune is he being blessed with today, and does it come with strings attached?

“So another one of those?” she asks, and rings them up.

They sidle along the counter to wait for their drinks, and Carver’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Predictably, it’s Bethy. _Why didn’t you tell me you had a date today?? I’m so offended????_

 _it was an accident_ , he types back before putting his phone on silent and putting it away. “Sorry. Nosy sisters.”

“You have siblings?” Felix seems inordinately delighted by this news, so Carver ends up talking about Bethy and her skyrocketing publishing career, and Garrett with his two husbands and rescue kennel. Felix is fascinated by everything he says, which is a tremendous boost to his ego, and he finds himself standing close and letting their arms brush as they chat. When their drinks come, they move from Carver’s round table to a smaller corner bench in a patch of sunlight, and Felix talks about how he knows Dorian—their supposed mutual acquaintance, though Carver has never heard his name—and a little about his students, though he seems reticent to discuss his actual work.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Carver says eventually, mouth twitching with poorly suppressed amusement. “You can just say you work for the government and leave it at that.”

“I don’t work for the government!” Felix laughs. “I promise. It’s just, my work is kind of esoteric, and it’s hard to get into too much detail without being confusing. Unless you’re actually an expert in imaginary numbers and theoretical mathematics, there’s only so much I can talk about until it gets boring.”

“I’m not either of those things, but I don’t mind. I like listening to you talk.”

Felix ducks his head and turns a pretty shade of pink, and Carver lets his hand drop to his own knee, sliding until his pinky finger meets the fabric of Felix’s close-fitting sand-colored trousers. Felix presses back, thigh to thigh; holding his breath, Carver moves his hand to Felix’s knee. Felix smiles at the ground and doesn’t answer.

“Or we can talk about something else,” Carver adds quietly. He’s almost forgotten that this was all a case of mistaken identity—instead it’s just serendipity, an unexpected clashing of worlds born of luck and chance. Felix’s thigh is firm and warm under his hand, and when he rubs his thumb along the outer seam of his trousers, he edges a little closer on the bench.

“What would you like to talk about?” Felix asks. He laces his fingers together in his lap and Carver tries not to leer.

“If you teach at Min U, what brings you to the Marches?”

“The cities here have some wonderful libraries. Kirkwall in particular has some of the oldest written works on the foundations of mathematics, and it’s doubly impressive since so many were almost lost in the wars.” His voice hitches and then falls back into its comfortable northern cadence as Carver slides his hand up another half-inch. Felix stretches out his opposite leg, opening up his pelvis, and even with the prim fold of his hands over his crotch, Carver can see his touch is affecting him. “And, you know, the traveling bit is nice. The university is funding everything, so I have a lot of freedom to go where the research is most promising.”

“Orlais is supposed to have some of the finest libraries in the world.”

“If you want music and literature and art, yes. Which are all wonderful things,” he hastens to add, obviously thinking of Carver’s poetry. “I love that aspect of culture, too. But my superiors won’t be quite as impressed if I send back receipts from the Louvre in Val Royeaux instead of the Kirkwall Museum of Alchemical Research.”

“We have culture here too, you know. Hightown has plenty of galleries and markets—a lot of it is newer, I grant you, but it’s still worth looking at.”

“You sound like you know where all the good spots are,” Felix says archly, eyes gleaming with interest. He shifts in his seat, and Carver’s hand slips a little higher along his inner thigh. Maker preserve him, what is his life? The table masks everything from an outside perspective, but from his own it’s hard to ignore the fact that he’s practically groping a stranger’s goods in public.

“I know a thing or two,” Carver agrees. He’s not quite sure what they’re talking about anymore. “I could show you, if you wanted.”

“I’d like that.” Felix’s eyes are definitely pinned to his lips now. Carver resists the urge to lick them.

Like an air raid siren on a balmy summer day, Felix’s phone goes off in his pocket. He jumps, blushing to his hairline with apologies, but Carver just squeeze his knee in commiseration and withdraws to let him fish it out. He lifts it to his ear with a sigh. “Dorian, what on earth—”

He’s immediately cut off by a fiery tirade that Carver can’t quite make out from here. A few words filter in, though: _blighted idiot, outraged, my deepest apologies_. Carver’s sizzling good mood drains away in an instant. Of course. The _real_ date Felix was supposed to meet realized what happened and is furious at being stood up. He curls his hand into a fist against his knee, still feeling the firmness of Felix’s thigh like a ghost in his palm, and looks away.

“What are you talking about?” Felix bursts out. “He’s right—”

More expletives. Carver can practically feel Felix’s gaze on him like a physical touch, prickling his skin like needles. The daydream is over.

“I see,” Felix says eventually, voice even. “Well, give him my regards. And thanks for trying.” He hangs up and drops his phone into a jacket pocket. For a while, there’s silence. Then Felix clears his throat. “So. You’re not the bloke I was supposed to meet.”

“Er. No.”

“And you knew that. But you just went along with it because… why? As a joke? For a laugh at a stranger’s expense?”

“No!” Carver exclaims, so outraged he manages to meet his eyes. “It was just so—so unexpected and so unreal that at first I didn’t think it was actually happening. And by the time I realized what was going on, I… well, you’re… you’re sort of wonderful. Smart, and good-looking, and Maker knows why but you actually laugh at my jokes, so your sense of humor must be as shite as mine.” He shrugs, clasping his hands together between his knees and watching the slow, embarrassed scrape of his shoe against the pavement. “I like you. And I kind of forgot that this wasn’t… real.”

For a while there’s just silence. Then a sigh. “Well, considering the man I was _supposed_ to meet stood me up… you’re already looking a lot better.”

“He stood you up?” Carver demands, instantly offended on his behalf, but Felix holds up his his hands to ward him off.

“Easy, I just had the whole angry friend rant from Dorian. Yeah, he stood me up. So the only other alternative for today would have been for me to sit alone for…” He checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes before Dorian realized and called me. I have to say, this was much more preferable.” He knocks their knees together, and Carver smiles despite himself.

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“It’s all right. You didn’t mean any harm.” Felix smiles back. “But it’s not really fair, is it? You co-opting someone else’s date?”

“Are you asking me to try harder?”

Felix shrugs. “Well, we _were_ just talking about art galleries.”

Carver looks at his own watch. “What are you doing in, oh, about ten minutes?”

“I didn’t have anything planned,” Felix says innocently. “Why?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me?”

He grins. “I’d love to.”


	26. before we say goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Hey there! Did you want a prompt from the 'right to the good bits' list? If you're still taking them, could you do any ship for number 11? Pretty please with a cherry on top?](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/143640511495/hey-there-did-you-want-a-prompt-from-the-right) for [littlexabyss](littlexabyss.tumblr.com)
> 
> A continuation of the previous chapter.

 

Carver often travels a lot for his own work, to this library and that particularly inspiring vista to feed the muse and keep it happy, but for the next month or two he’s holed up in Kirkwall writing up a storm. It’s the perfect timing to have a bit of a late-summer affair. It’s always hovering in the back of their minds that it’s temporary—but like their meeting, Carver leans on karma and serendipity, pushing aside his doubts and the impending date of Felix’s departure and just enjoying his presence as much as he can.

As promised, he takes him on a tour of Kirkwall’s arts district, walking along the boulevards of the Old City and strolling up and down the dyke wall that faces the harbor. They spend their days apart, mostly, working on their own projects, but in the afternoons they meet for coffee or dinner or drinks, and return to Carver’s apartment or Felix’s hotel room and spend their nights like they’re living in a whirlwind romance novel.

Perhaps they are.

But his favorite so far of all their dates was the first. Not the accidental coffee date, but what followed: a jaunt up a block or two to his favorite modern art gallery, boasting some of the most pivotal work being produced in the city, in secret, at the cusp of the Lyrium Wars. Ironically, Kirkwall was the first to recover, but the conflicts began here, in the streets and under them, and the artwork on display proves it.

Felix, as he had hoped, was enraptured. He listened to Carver’s passionate discussion of his favorite piece, an enormous wall-sized sketch for what would later become the mural painted on the last remaining wall of Kirkwall’s chantry, a memorial to the lives lost before and during the conflict. And when he finally wound down, laughing slightly in embarrassment, Felix only said, “Don’t apologize,” with eyes so dark and focused Carver thought he might drown in them. “I like listening to you talk.”

Carver still isn’t sure how it happened, but a few minutes later they were in the bathroom, Felix pressed to the side of the stall while Carver kissed him breathless. The blood roared in his ears and Felix’s fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed his way down his body, prying open his shirt and trousers and down, onto his knees, mouthing at his cock through his underwear. Dizzy with want, he’d looked up at Felix for confirmation and seen only desire written in his face.

It was quick and messy, things Carver usually isn’t on a first date, but it was perfect. He sucked Felix to the edge in a matter of minutes, reveling in the taste and feel of him on his tongue, and when he came he swallowed him down without hesitation. Weak-kneed, he rose to kiss his sweet mouth, groaning quietly as Felix palmed him, and finally pulled him out and jerked him off until he came in a wad of toilet paper.

Hardly the most romantic liaison—and the gallery docents gave them second looks as they meandered through the rest of the gallery holding hands, pink and pleased with themselves—but it perfect, somehow. A little bit illicit, a bit of a dangerous thrill that colored the rest of the dwindling summer weeks with excitement and novelty.

And now, abruptly, it has come to a stone-cold end. Felix checked out of his hotel a day early and brought his things to Carver’s apartment in order to catch his early flight back to Tevinter the next morning, and they spent the evening making love, with occasional breaks for wine and munchies. They dropped off sometime around midnight, and now Carver is the first awake, lying angled across the bed with Felix sprawled in his arms, sour breath puffing slow against his neck. He stares at the ceiling instead of the clock. The weight of his body is nothing compared to the weight on his heart, but he knows he has no leverage, nothing he can say that will make Felix want to stay. Everything he has is in Tevinter—his friends, his family, his job, his _life_ —and what is Carver against all that? A willing body, someone to take him out and about and treat him like a prince, but for a limited time only. He comes with an expiration date, and he knows it. Has always known it.

There had been no declarations of love, and there won’t be. They’re both adults, and they know the score. They live hours apart by plane, days by car, and even if a long-distance relationship were possible, they’ve said nothing about commitment, or _making plans_. There is no future for them; just this. Just a cold autumn morning with the windows left open over the bay, letting in the sound of waves and the smell of salt and a sad, grey sky.

In his arms, Felix stirs. Carver tightens his grip just a little and breathes him in one more time, nose to his hairline. “Time is it?” Felix mumbles without looking up.

“Almost six.” His alarm isn’t set to go off for another half-hour. Hopefully, he rubs Felix’s back under the covers, coaxing him closer. “You’ve got time.”

“Time for a shower and a proper breakfast at the airport,” Felix says, pleased. He wriggles free of Carver’s body and climbs out of bed, stretching his hands to the ceiling. He’s still naked from the night before, and every curve and muscle is thrown into sharp relief against the silver grey light coming through the window. Carver’s eyes wander down his back, following the trail of red marks he’d left behind last night. He wonders if he’s still sore, if he’ll feel the pounding Carver gave him every time he sits down today. “Maker, it’s cold in here,” Felix says suddenly. He goes to the window and shuts it firmly, and when he turns back his nipples are peaked and his cock is plump and rosy against his thigh.

“Gorgeous,” Carver murmurs without quite meaning to.

Felix smirks. “Are you trying to get me back into bed, serrah?”

“Is it working?”

“Mmmm.” He saunters closer, close enough that his thigh brushes Carver’s hand where it hangs off the bed, an aborted reach. “Maybe. I really don’t want to be late.”

“You won’t be.” Carver hooks his hand around the back of his thigh, coaxing him nearer. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh really?” Felix laughs, but he climbs into bed.

Through some odd twist, they don’t speak again the rest of the morning. Carver sucks his cock lying down like it’s going out of style, and Felix straddles his shoulders and bites his hand against the noises that rise in his throat, the only accompaniment the slight creak of the mattress as he fucks his mouth. Afterward they shower together and Felix returns the favor, silent under the patter of water against the tile floor. By the time they’ve dressed and Carver is loading up his bags into the trunk of his car to take him to the airport, the silence has become noticeable. Painfully so. Felix’s good humor has drained away and he sits primly in the passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap, face like stone as he looks out the window; Carver doesn’t bother to turn on the radio, and drives like he’s in a fog, feeling the muted grey of the day weighing down on him like a physical ache.

Felix says nothing when he follows him through customs, and they order coffee and breakfast sandwiches at a kiosk independently of one another. It’s almost like a dream, Carver thinks. A vision. Like speaking will break the spell, and Felix will be gone from his life entirely, never to be seen again. But, he supposes, it’s sort of like that anyway.

“You don’t have to stay,” Felix says at last, standing at the gate while the minutes tick down to boarding time. He’s got half an hour still, after all that, and Carver is frozen.

“All right.” He doesn’t know what else to say—he doesn’t have it in him to beg. Not here. Not for this. He was lucky to get as much as he did, and he knows it. He leans in and kisses Felix’s cheek, and it feels cold and impersonal somehow, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. “Have a good flight.”

And that’s all. He turns around and walks back the way he came, and he doesn’t know why it feels like every step is splitting him in two.

He gets as far as rounding the corner when he has to sit down. He feels dizzy, somehow, like his blood sugar levels have dropped, but that doesn’t make sense because he just ate. He breathes through it, pulling out his phone. The last text is from Felix, from the night before. _I can’t wait_. Carver had offered to host him for the night, promising food and sex and a comfortable bed. The magic words. And yet not enough to make him stay.

It hits him suddenly that that’s what he wants. He wants Felix to stay. Or to follow him, perhaps, run after him and confess his heart—and it’s foolish, isn’t it, to declare his love after such a short time together? But the hand of fate has been in this from the beginning, and with a queasy roll of his stomach, he realizes he’d being a complete idiot.

He stands up too quickly and nearly falls over. Definitely not the kind of impression he wants to make, even if falling at someone’s feet sounds good in the stories. There’s a smoothie bar down a few stalls, and he makes his way there, ordering the first thing on the list and sucking it down in record time. The girl behind the counter eyes him with something like alarm, and he gives her his nicest, most normal smile before binning the cup and walking back to the gate.

But Felix is gone—half the people waiting are gone. First class has already boarded, and they’re halfway through business class. All the built-up excitement leaves him in a rush, leaving him jittery and hollow. _So much for your grand plans_ , he thinks glumly. He bites back the disappointment and turns to go. And stops.

Standing a few feet away, his carryon bag sitting on the floor, is Felix. He wrings his hands, eyes dark and wet, and opens his mouth as Carver approaches him, tentative, certain that he’s nothing more than an apparition. “Come with me,” he blurts, just as Carver tells him, “Stay.”

They fall silent in tandem and stare at one another. “Or,” Carver fumbles, “I could do that, too. But… your flight.”

Felix shrugs. “I missed it.”

“Your luggage?”

“Lost. A pity, I suppose I’ll have to borrow yours. Or just go without.” He comes a step closer, close enough that their toes brush and Carver can feel the heat of his body pouring off him like a furnace. “I have another semester to work, but I don’t need to spend all of it at the university. One more month.” He puts his hands on Carver’s chest, and it only seems natural for Carver to put his arms around his waist and pull him close. “A month for you to get your things in order, for us to decide if this is what we really want. And then come with me to Tevinter. You’ll love it there—more art and culture than you can shake a stick at, _and_ we have the internet, so you can email your publisher from wherever you like.” He smiles, noses just touching. “Say yes.”

Carver’s belly swoops. “Maker, yes, of course,” but whatever else he means to say is cut off when Felix kisses him soundly in front of the entire airport. _I love you_ , he thinks, heart and arms full of him, but the confession, he decides, will keep.


	27. backstage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way !!! fever !!!](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/143668991820/12-we-were-pretending-to-be-lovers-but-im-not) for [professionallilbrocarverhawke](professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com)

 

The thing was, it had started out as a joke.

They met as best men in Cullen and Dorian’s wedding, which by necessity had thrust them together, and months of planning and refining every detail had brought them into the sort of intense friendship that can only be forged over manic, caffeine-fueled nights debating every tiny detail for the coming ceremony. Although they were both men, and compatible in some ways, Cullen and Dorian were very different people, and they were sometimes at their wits’ end trying to ensure the wedding went smoothly.

One such compromise was the “bachelor squared” party that Felix put together. With only slight input from Carver he masterminded the entire thing, complete with a private room at a club and even private strippers—primarily male, but a few women thrown in as well for variety—to complete the cliché ambiance. Carver had made his discomfort known early on, but Cullen didn’t seem put off by it, so he determined to stand in a corner and avoid eye contact with everyone until the ordeal was over.

Of course fate would intervene. He had settled himself where he could keep an eye on the men of the hour and nurse his pint in private, leaning with one elbow against a narrow shelf that ran around the room for the express purpose of putting down discarded glasses, when a mostly naked man painted entirely in translucent glitter caught wind of him.

As soon as Carver locked eyes with him, a predatory grin curled across the man’s face and he began stalking him. Carver panicked. He didn’t like clubs, and he didn’t like naked people trying to seduce him in public, particularly naked _strangers_. Nothing against people who were into it, it just wasn’t his thing. He looked around wildly, desperate for something or someone to use as an escape, and nearly fainted with relief when Felix materialized at his side like a specter just before the stripper could come any closer.

“Sorry, sweetheart, this one’s all mine.”

As soon as the glittery mirage turned to seek out someone else to tuck singles into his g-string, Carver sagged against the wall and, incidentally, into Felix. “Thank you.”

“There, there,” Felix laughed, stroking his hair back from his damp forehead. God, he _really_ hated clubs. “I’ll protect you.”

“Please. Don’t leave me,” Carver said, too riddled with anxiety to pretend to be aloof. Surprise colored Felix’s face, but he nodded solemnly, even craning up to kiss his cheek in consolation.

“I won’t. Promise.”

And he didn’t. He clung to Carver’s side like a limpet, occasionally petting his hair and making sure he had a fresh beer now and then, and by the end of the night Carver was drunk and cozy, leaning on Felix’s shoulder as they stumbled their way to a cab. Cullen and Dorian shared, since they were all going to the same hotel anyway, and while Carver half-snoozed on Felix’s shoulder Dorian went on and on about how offended he was that they hadn’t told him they were dating.

Felix made no effort to deny it, a fact that somehow stuck out like a sore thumb even the next morning. When he ventured to ask about it, in a brief moment alone over the breakfast buffet, Felix stared into his orange juice and admitted, “I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t real. He’s been rooting for me to find someone for ages now, and he was so happy about it…”

“So you want to lie to your best friend right before his wedding,” Carver stated bluntly, confused. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing Felix would do. He was just so… _good_. The best person he had ever met, actually. And quite nice to look at. Truthfully he wouldn’t mind being in a relationship with him, fake or otherwise, but that seemed like the sort of card one ought to keep close to one’s chest.

“Not… _lie_ ,” Felix said, looking pained. “Just. Not do anything in particular to dissuade him. It’s not as if we have to be fake _boyfriends_ —god knows I don’t have the mental energy for a _real_ boyfriend right now, let alone a pretend one. Just, you know. Letting off steam together. And after the wedding we go our separate ways.”

Over Felix’s shoulder, Carver could see Dorian and Cullen approaching, hand in hand and looking disgustingly in love. Only a week until the ceremony, he thought. A week wherein he could be affectionate and maybe a little flirty with a man he found attractive, receive some mild physical comfort and attention with no strings attached… after so long in the proverbial desert, the idea is certainly appealing.

“It’s a deal,” he murmured, letting his hand rest at the small of Felix’s back. Even that small contact was a soft bloom of warmth in the back of his mind, a little puff of endorphins that lifted his mood from the wedding stress it had been mired in for days.

It was a very good week. There was no sex, not even close, but now and again circumstances aligned to allow them to kiss, or touch one another discreetly, or even hold hands. For Carver, it was grounding. He was able to focus on keeping all the details straight as last-minute problems arose and were solved, and by the time the wedding day dawned, it actually felt possible that they could pull off this massive ceremony and celebration without a hitch—except the hitch that mattered, anyway.

He realized too late that Dorian wasn’t the only one being fed a steady stream of hints about the nature of his and Felix’s relationship. Carver had escaped the worst of his mother’s scrutiny in recent years, thanks to Marian’s phoenix-bright, effervescent whirlwind romances and, later, Bethany’s more sedate dating life that he can only bring himself to think of as _courtship_.

But now, suddenly, it was Carver’s turn. Walking back down the aisle with Felix at his side, beaming as they followed their newlywed best mates to the back of the church, he looked askance just in time to see his mother dabbing away tears. And she wasn’t looking at the people who had actually gotten _married_ not two minutes ago. Of course not. She was looking at _him_.

But his time was up. Dorian and Cullen were leaving tonight for their honeymoon, and Felix would most likely be returning to his father’s country estate while Carver went back to London. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what Felix was doing after tonight, but then again it wasn’t really his business. They were friends, quite close in some ways, but Felix had a life of his own, and so did Carver. This entire wedding business, while long and convoluted, was over with, and they moved in different circles. It was time for him to stop daydreaming.

The speeches and the dinner went smoothly, and afterward, Carver snuck away for a quick breath of fresh air and silence. He was enjoying the peace and his tumbler of whiskey when the side door slammed open and Felix reeled out, redder than a salmon’s belly and decorated with a smear of pink along his jawline. He made room for him under the honeysuckle arbor and offered his glass.

“What is it?” Felix rasped, taking it.

“Whiskey. The good stuff.”

“Good.” And in one go, Felix knocked it back and swallowed, shuddering. “Sorry. I needed that.”

“What’s gone wrong? I thought we were doing well.”

“Oh, we are—that is, _they_ are. In there.” He gestured to the building they’d finally chosen, a beautiful hunting lodge in the middle of the Sussex Downs that had cost a pretty penny to rent. Carver had nearly fainted at the sum, but Felix had calmly produced a cheque from his father without even batting an eye. And it had been a hit so far with all the guests, but Carver would be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the whole thing to go up in flames at the last minute. “Everyone’s having the time of their lives. The machine is tick-ticking away without us, just like clockwork.”

“Then why do you look like you just got in a brawl with a tube of lipstick?”

“ _Ugh_ , is it still there?” He pawed at his face until Carver took pity on him and produced a handkerchief.

“Here, let me.”

He’d laughed in Bethy’s face when she’d first brought up the ‘necessity’ of embroidered kerchiefs for the entire wedding party, but now he was glad of it. He dipped the corner in the dregs of whiskey and melted ice in the bottom of his glass and held Felix’s chin steady with his free hand, wiping away the gooey stuff until all that was left behind was fresh-scrubbed skin and thick, dark stubble now smelling faintly of malt whiskey.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“I was ambushed,” Felix sighed. “An old friend from university, Helia Draconis—she’s from a good family, Dad always hoped we’d have something. We didn’t, but apparently she’s trying to rekindle the old, nonexistent flame.”

“She fancies you?”

“She fancies my money, I suppose,” Felix said glumly. “Not that she isn’t set up nicely herself, but she’s the sort of girl who can never have enough. And she prefers to live off of her inheritance rather than work, so it’s a limited supply.” He turned to look across the lake that bordered the lodge, now lit by starlight and the quaint little path of electric paper lanterns dotting the shore. It will be perfect for midnight strolls later on, for those who are so inclined, but right now the path was deserted and, in Carver’s mind, highly inviting.

“Want to take a turn around the lake?” he offered, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Cool off a little?”

Felix chuckled. “You say that like I’m hot and bothered.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I suppose, but not in that way.” He shuddered and sank his hands into his pockets as the set off. The path was narrow enough that their elbows brushed with every step, and it warmed Carver from the inside out. “I just wish Dad wouldn’t encourage her. He knows I’m not…”

Carver waited. The lake lapped against the shore and the paper lanterns rustled softly, emitting their gentle glow along the flagstones. “Not what?”

“Not interested in women.”

This was news to Carver. “Are you not?”

“Maybe I used to be. Maybe I _thought_ I used to be. I was never really like Dorian—so energetic about it, _reveling_ in it. He’s always known he was gay, and he nursed it privately for so long it’s sort of become his armor. I don’t mean it’s _fabricated_ , the way he acts, just that… well, I don’t know. I’m making too much of it. I just mean to say, I’m not like that. Most people would probably mistake me for a straight man.”

“I did,” Carver confessed. “For a little while. Then I thought maybe you were bi, until the night at the club.”

Felix shrugged one shoulder. “Nope. All in, I’m afraid.”

“And your dad knows this?”

“We’ve… discussed it. He was so supportive of Dorian, that I thought… well, perhaps it’s different when it’s your own blood. And the family name and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver said honestly.

He knew how lucky he was, that his mother didn’t bat an eye when Marian burst into a sudden tirade at the dinner table many years ago declaring that she was a lesbian; knew he was lucky that his own quiet admission, a few years later, was met with a kiss on the forehead and gentle, sincere, “Well, whoever he or she is, whenever you meet them, I hope you’ll bring them home to dinner.”

“It’s a load of horse shit, this ‘carrying on the family name’ business,” Felix said with disgust, scuffing his nice shoe against the path. “It’s the twenty-first century, for god’s sake. If only Helia weren’t here tonight, I wouldn’t feel so trapped. How sad is that?” He stopped, huffing a pathetic laugh that struck a chord of empathy in Carver’s chest. “I’ve spent months planning and preparing to make today as perfect as possible, and now I can’t even enjoy it.”

Carver stopped too, looking around. The lake was small and they were already on the other side, the lights of the lodge dancing across the black surface of the water like long strands of liquid gold. “Would it help if I…”

“If you what?” He turned to face him, hands still in his pockets so that his dinner jacket rumpled up around the bottom. Yet somehow he still looked so trim, so composed and elegant, with a bower of white rambling roses framing his head like a crown. Carver’s mouth was very dry.

“You know. Continued the ruse, for a little while.” He stroked the patina of Felix’s lapel briefly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle, and the confusion on his face cleared.

“I… appreciate the offer. But carrying this on any longer, particularly with my father…”

“Of course.” He snatched his hand away again and turned away to stare again at the lake, as if hoping it had answers to give him. It did not. “Sorry.”

There was an awkward pause, and he heard Felix coming to stand abreast of him, watching the lights dance on the water. “Carver… have I offended you?”

“Offended? No, of course not,” he said through numb lips. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s just, you seem…” He fell quiet again.

Restless, Carver turned to pace, reaching up to pluck a sprig of roses and tickle his nose with the delicate scent. “I was just thinking, what if it wasn’t a ruse?”

Felix seemed to hold his breath, it was so perfectly quiet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I know it’s silly, but this week has been. Nice. I enjoyed it. And I thought, if you enjoyed it too, well. Why not make it official?” He twirled the sprig between thumb and forefinger and watched the petals flurry to the ground. “Unless, of course, the idea is repulsive to you?”

“ _Repulsive_ ,” Felix echoed, voice fraught with disbelief. “Carv, I thought… I thought it was just a little fling, a temporary… _ruse_ , as you say.”

“Well, it was your idea,” Carver mumbled sullenly. “To be all sneaky and secretive.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

A gentle touch alighted on Carver’s elbow, and he turned to find Felix standing very close, eyes bright in the moonlight. “Fee…”

“Kiss me,” Felix whispered. “Please. Like you mean it.”

“I’ve always meant it,” Carver said, and took him into his arms.

He’d held Felix occasionally over the past week, but it had been nothing like this. Now they fit together as close as physically possible, arms entwined and chests pressed so close Carver swore he could feel Felix’s heartbeat mirroring his own. And his mouth under his, hot and open, tongues sliding together and teeth clacking once or twice, unpracticed, but they were able to laugh and withdraw and try a new angle until it was perfect.

And it _was_ perfect. So perfect he was dizzy with it, with the scent of roses and the cologne Felix was wearing, spicy and dark. He kissed the taste of him clean, and then kissed him some more, until Felix was melting against him and flushing clear under his collar, a pretty color Carver followed with his lips until he could make a mark of his own, a little purplish bruise right over his collarbone.

Felix groaned, and it seemed loud all of a sudden, carrying across the little lake. They froze and looked at one another. Then, slowly, Carver felt his face breaking up into a smile. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing an apology to his throat.

“It’s all right.” Felix petted carefully at his hair, neatly coiffed for the ceremony but now coming into loose waves in the aftermath. “Do you think they’ll miss us, if we stay out here a little longer?”

“Eventually. But if I’m honest, I don’t really give a fuck.”

Felix broke into peals of laughter, and these he muffled into Carver’s collar to prevent being heard. “If I’m honest, I agree with you.” He hummed as Carver stroked his back, and a wave of possessiveness washed over him at the thought of anyone else laying hands or lips on this man.

“I want you,” he said suddenly, a little bit embarrassed at how easily it slipped out. “I mean… yeah, I want _that_ , but also just… you.”

Felix smiled so widely his eyes nearly disappeared. “I want you, too. And _that_. Very much.”

“You’re teasing me,” Carver grumbled, but he couldn’t bring himself to be truly irritated. He bent and kissed Felix on the tip of the nose.

“And you’re perfectly lovely.” He exhaled long and slow, head tipped back against the soft exploration of Carver’s lips. “We should go back soon. But, Carv…” His hands on Carver’s cheeks prevented him from pulling away, drawing him down instead for another meandering kiss. “Tonight…”

“Handy thing, this sharing a room business, isn’t it?” He grinned against Felix’s mouth and finally forced himself to let him go. Already his body was aching to have him close again, but he reminded himself that there would be plenty of time for that later. And after that, well. That would be something else entirely, but he was willing to wait until morning to figure it out.


	28. someone's going to see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix participates in a special Avvar custom. for em and sherribon

“Get your--Carver! No! Someone’s going to see!”

Carver, to his credit, withdraws his hand at once. The firelight that scores his brow blurs his confusion into a scowl, but Felix isn’t frightened as he lifts the hand that had been groping the front of his trousers to graze Felix’s bottom lip. “Likely, yes. Is that of concern to you?”

Unbidden, Felix thinks back to earlier that night, when Ruvena and Po had surrounded Bethany in their embrace and been surrounded in turn, suffused in the Lady’s holy, unnatural light. But surely that was different? A celestial, almost religious experience, a union between a goddess and her people, while this...

“It’s just--just that,” he stammers, staring at his feet rather than Carver’s blue-black eyes, flickering like coals in the glow of the bonfire, “it’s, it’s not what I’m used to.”

“But you are one of us, now. The Lady has declared it so.” He touches the corner of Felix’s mouth very lightly. “It is your right as a member of our hold to fully participate in the… festivities.”

_ Festivities  _ indeed. There is still dancing, to be sure, and song and laughter, but there is also… something else. Something more primal that has infected the hold in the wake of Lady’s presence among them. Casual touches between holdspeople linger, eyes are dark and hungry. In the fringes of the firelight, couples and threesomes come together, bodies becoming one in celebration of their favor with the gods. 

And here Felix is, one of them. He still doesn’t quite understand what happened, but he can feel the memory of Bethany’s unearthly regard weighing on his shoulders, the liquid-silver taste of her chaste kiss still lingering on his mouth. Or perhaps that’s Carver’s thumb, warm and tingling against his lower lip. Something unpleasant--fear? Shame?--glazes over him, and when he turns his head, the touch skates across his cheek and drops to his shoulder, then away. 

Carver draws in on himself, seeming to grow taller and more distant. “I see. You do not find me worthy. Forgive me, I… there are many in this hold who would not hesitate, because of… who I am. But it has only made me arrogant.” He shifts awkwardly on his feet, but his words are low and sincere. “I do not wish to discomfit you.”

He sounds so horribly stiff, like the man he first knew when he was still confined to Malcolm’s tent, and it breaks his heart a little. “No, no that isn’t it, I promise. I--I swear by the Lady.”

Carver rears back. “I--your own word is enough, you shouldn’t--”

“It isn’t that I find you unworthy,” he babbles, mouth now run entirely away with him.  _ Maker, who could? _ “It’s just that I, um. I’ve never…”

“Never…  _ oh _ ,” he says, just as Felix is beginning to fear he’s going to have to spell it out. “What, truly?”

If he wasn’t embarrassed before, he is now. Being tutored at home, away from his peers, hadn’t given much opportunity for carousing, even if he’d wanted to--his books and calculations had always seemed more interesting. He doesn’t regret it, exactly, but now that he’s in the position of telling Carver he wants him to be his first--weedy, underweight Felix, still sallow with the marks of illness and ignorant of the Avvar ways--he wishes circumstances were different. 

He remembers sitting outside only a few weeks ago, his quarantine finally lifted, watching the strapping, eager young men tussling in a vague pack in the middle of the square, vying for the honor of Carver’s gaze to fall upon them. And, eventually, the bronzed hunter who emerged victorious, and came to claim his prize--a kind, gruff word and the promise of a later tryst. Felix couldn’t be farther from that perfect Avvar specimen, and he is ashamed at how desperately he wishes that he were. 

But Carver has no such qualms. He takes him by the elbow and leads him deeper into the shadows, away from the dancing and the revelry as the hold celebrates the Lady walking among them. It is still warm in the mountains, and the heather is thick and fragrant under his bare feet as they find a small, secluded spot, a hollow thick with green and flanked by stones. Carver drops his hand and his eyes and clears his throat. 

“You do not  _ have _ to. But if you wish to, I am here and I am willing.”

He doesn’t know why it sounds so familiar until he remembers the hunter, burnished gold by the sun, saying the same words with his chin high and the flush of victory on his face. Grateful for the cloak of darkness, he steps forward and takes Carver’s enormous calloused had in his. 

“I am here, and I am willing.”

Carver smiles, or he thinks he does--he feels the curve of his lips against his own when Carver kisses him, not at all like the soft touch of not-Bethany’s holy benediction. This kiss is of the earth, not the sky, warm and heavy, tasting of mead and roasted meats and the dank, heavy smell of firesmoke on the mountain. His hands wander, fumbling over the unfamiliar fastenings of Felix’s clothing, until piece by piece he is unveiled and bare under the light of the moon. 

Carver spreads out his own sturdier leathers and then Felix’s silken shirt on top, and with the spring of the heather beneath it’s as soft as a bed of down to Felix’s touch. Self-conscious--the taint has not been kind to him--he tries at first to hide, nonsensically, folding his arms across his chest and drawing up his knees. But Carver stretches out beside him and draws him into his body, kissing his fingers and wrists and elbows, the pointy bits that still stick through his clothes, the parts of his chest and stomach where the hair fell out and is slow to grow back. And slowly, he unbends. His fingers uncurls from their fists and touch down hesitantly on miles of smooth, firm skin, and the rumble that emerges from Carver’s throat at his touch is illuminating. 

Arousal finds him slowly, filling up his veins like a new wineskin, plump and ripe and full of promise. Carver’s touch is infinitely gentle--his hands are so large, riddled with scars and the callouses of the warrior’s life, but he is careful with Felix without being condescending. The aftereffects of the taint are still inside him, and he shivers sometimes with the chill, or the softness in Carver’s face. But gradually, like the sun rising, heat unfurls through every part of his body until he gasps with it. 

He is weak before Carver’s strength and surety. A fist around his cock, a mouth on his throat, hoarse murmurings in a language he’s only just beginning to comprehend--he is already on the edge. He twists, head back and eyes shut tight against the curious starlight, and he bites the side of his own hand to keep silent as convulsions take him, thin and strained after so long without. It’s as if his body has forgotten how to feel pleasure--everything is raw-edged and stuttering, and the seed he spills is little more than a lukewarm spatter on his belly. He shakes violently afterward, gasping apologies that Carver soothes quiet. There’s a hard cock prodding him in the hip like a fire-hot poker, but Carver is in no hurry, only cradling him to his chest like a child and gripping the nape of his neck until the shock of it wears away into nothing. 

“I’m all right,” he mumbles into Carver’s chest. The words have been rattling around in his brain for a little while now, and when he says them aloud he feels his body slacken and sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He pets his spine, one long slide down and back up, and his back curves instinctively to follow the movement. “Was it… too much?”

“It was perfect. I just. When I was ill, I… I couldn’t, not even for myself. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.” He touches Carver’s skin, his hip and thigh, the blood-hot length of him sitting fat and wanting in the cup of his hand. He’s a little clumsy with it, but the movement is simple and Carver’s shuddering exhale is encouragement enough. 

“Are you--”

“Stop asking questions,” Felix tells him, and is pleasantly surprised when he goes wide-eyed and silent, still but for the the quiver of his belly when Felix twists his wrist at the top of his stroke. Carver fills his palm and more, damp at the tip, with a generous foreskin that makes a soft sound with every pull. His body is built of bulging muscle and sturdy bone, but Felix’s touch seems to soften him, melting him into the heather, and when he shudders and grunts, hips twisting, his fingers clawing at the ground, Felix feels like the most powerful man in the world. 

“You are exquisite,” he whispers. Carver’s lashes open, dark and clinging with dewfall.

“What?”

_ Oh _ . He’d been speaking in Tevene. Suddenly too shy to repeat it--he isn’t sure of the protocol for trysts such as these--he bends down and distracts him with a kiss. Carver is happy to be distracted. His hands come up and tangle in Felix’s hair, scrape down the arch of his back and coax him to straddle his thighs as his strokes grow quicker and shorter. Carver’s hips judder in rhythm and sounds escape him unchecked--low cries and breath punching out of him in a great gulps, like the ocean lashing itself against the shore. 

When he finds release, it’s everything that Felix’s wasn’t. He shakes and moans like a tree in the wind, and his spend is thick and plentiful, striping his chest and belly with the evidence of his pleasure. He shakes a little bit, too, but soon he is languorous and satiated, tugging Felix to lay against him in spite of the mess. 

He is stiff at first, uncertain.  _ What now?  _ He had thought to consider Carver his friend, but this tangles up the threads. Carver is not among the more promiscuous of the holdspeople, given his wandering ways, but even he has bedded a handful of people in the time that Felix has known him, and he doesn’t know how to translate it. Doesn’t know what he wants, or how to express it in a way that would make sense to Carver. He’s the most beautiful man Felix has ever seen--may Dorian forgive him for the unintended slight--and now that he knows the sight of his face in orgasm, the touch of his hands, it will be hard to forget. 

“You are thinking too much,” Carver rumbles under his ear. Felix huffs. 

“I’m cold.” He extricates himself and tugs his shirt free from under Carver’s bulk. “I’m going back to the fire.”

There’s a moment of startled bewilderment on Carver’s face, and then it’s gone. “May I accompany you?”

There’s a tight, unpleasant feeling in his belly, but he can’t say no. If falling in love with this man is a cliff, he’s standing at the top of it and is happy to jump. “I would like that,” he says, swallowing his fear. If he must wake tomorrow and watch Carver cast his smiles on another, so be it. For tonight, he will be his. 


	29. the proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a first sentence prompt from earlgreyer on tumblr: "They were both soaked to the skin and laughing at the absurdity of the situation, the summer storm having caught them by surprise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this on tumblr a while ago but never got around to putting it up here. Warning for chronic illness and a panick attack. This is not fluff guys, sorry!

The only warning they had was the flash of heat lightning just off the cape. Carver paused in scooping a seashell out of the sand and held a hand to his eyes, squinting out at the horizon. "Was that...?" 

He didn't even have enough time to finish his sentence. The hazy grey clouds that had been gathering slowly overhead for the past twenty minutes suddenly turned black, and the heavens opened up. Torrents of rain lashed down, warm and relentless—Carver galloped away from the tideline as it came roaring up to meet him, feet leaving slapdash little hollows in the sand behind him.  

Higher on the tideline, his white tee plastered to his whip-thin body, Felix was doubled over laughing as Carver tripped and stumbled his way up to higher ground. Carver scowled and tackled him, and they both tumbled to the ground in a muddy tangle, clothes twisting tighter around their bodies and the roar of the downpour pierced by Felix's delighted laughter. Sand was smeared into shirts, bare feet kicked and elbows flew—Carver got clocked in the face and Felix yelped an apology that was drowned out by giggles and Carver shoved his cold hands up under his shirt to tickle his ribs.  

"Stop! Stop!" Felix gasped, writhing, laughing and gasping and squinting away the rainwater. With a huff, Carver relented and flopped onto his back.  

"Serves you right." 

"All right, fine. I'm sorry. How's that?" He sat up and yanked his shirt over his head with some difficulty, throwing it to the tideline in a dirty heap. Rain drenched his dark hair black and ran down his lithe, brown body in rivulets, glistening over freckles and the protrusions of spine and shoulder blades. With a twinge of sadness, Carver reached up and spread his palm out flat on his boyfriend's back.  

"Want to head back?" 

"Not yet. Let's just watch the rain for a little while."  

Carver silently assented, and he sat up too, wrenching with clumsy fingers at the buttons on his shirt until Felix finally huffed and took over. He sat patiently and watched the concentration in Felix's face as he plucked each button from its hole: the little wrinkle in between his brows, the way the rainwater gathered on his lashes and clustered them into long, dark points, the occasional flash of teeth as he nibbled obsessively at his chapped lower lip.  

When he finished, he moved to push the shirt off Carver's shoulders, but stilled when Carver lifted a thumb to rub away the redness of his mouth. He blinked up at him, limpid and smiling, and Carver's stomach tightened.  

"Kiss me," Felix commanded, oblivious to the turmoil in his head.  

Carver obeyed, looping his fingers into the empty belt loops at Felix's waist and hauling him forward into his lap. The shift in weight threw Felix forward into his arms, and he was laughing when their mouths touched. It was a very wet kiss, with all the rain, but Carver couldn't care less—he wrapped his arms around Felix's waist and held him sturdily against his chest, tasting seawater and ozone when their tongues licked together.  

After a little while, Felix sighed happily and laid his head on Carver's shoulder. "Okay. I'm ready now." 

Carver squeezed him gently, terrified of the way his ribs pushed out into the soft meat of Carver's inner arms. "C'mon then, tiger. I've got you." 

Felix didn't protest when Carver boosted him up into his arms, shirts forgotten on the tideline. The rain had already started to slacken, and even though the day was still warm and humid, clean-washed but still vibrant with the Seheron heat, Felix began to shiver in his arms.  

"Should've brought a beach blanket or something," Carver grunted, navigating the sponge-soft sand up to where the path was firmer.  

"It's all right. I'm warm," Felix lied. His jaw was clenched against Carver's nape but he could still feel it threatening to chatter. He scooped one arm more securely under Felix's rump and rubbed his back with the other, trying not to count the vertebrae as he massaged warmth back into his skin. "Mm. Feels good." 

Carver gave his wet ear a quick kiss. "When we get back you're taking an extra dose of medication, okay?" 

"'Kay," Felix sighed. "Tastes foul, though." 

"Yeah, well. Life is hard." The quip fell flat, too laced with bitterness to be light-hearted. If Felix heard it he gave no indication, and Carver instantly felt guilty for the poor attempt at humor. "How about this. We'll take a hot bath when we get back, and then you'll take your medication and I'll make us mimosas to drink on the porch. Sound good?" 

"Aren't I not supposed to mix alcohol with that stuff?" 

"If you don't tell your Dad, I won't." 

Felix hummed appreciatively. "Deal." 

Carver tightened his grip and crested the hill. The Alexius summer villa was just a few hundred feet away, surprisingly humble and built in the local style, up on stilts in the hard-packed sand to avoid floodwaters from the nearby delta. Gereon was napping on the couch when they arrived, and he stirred only to make sure all was well before subsiding again. Carver tiptoed past him and into the master bath, setting Felix down carefully on the edge of the sink.  

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, chin tipped down to watch as Carver worked open his belt and the fastenings on his bright yellow shorts. They were a gag gift last year from Isabela for his birthday, right after he was diagnosed; they would slide right off his hips now, were it not for the belt, but Carver still thought he looked adorable in them.  

"I want to." He eased everything off and went to fill the tub. "Medicine, Fee." 

"Right."  

He heard the creak of the medicine cabinet opening and the little pit-pat of Felix dropping barefoot to the ground. Then the clatter of the pill bottle, and the overdramatic gagging sounds as Felix swallowed and coughed to clear his throat.  

"Ugh. Disgusting." 

"Mimosas," Carver reminded him. "C'mon, in the tub." 

"Only if you come with me." Felix cocked his hip against the edge of the tub and smirked. Even painfully thin as he had become, he was still so full of life—the curl of his smile and the glitter of his dark eyes hadn't changed a whit in the last year. Carver leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.  

"I'll be right in." 

When he was sure Felix was safely ensconced in the slowly rising hot water, he slipped out of the bathroom, past the living area with its enormous picture window and into the kitchen. He got as far as putting his hand on the door of the fridge before the panic attack hit.  

He'd had worse, he decided when it was over. He was sat on the floor with his back to the cupboards, face wet and hands still cold and clammy, tucked in against his chest; he wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could hear Felix and Gereon chatting in the bathroom, voices sedate, and he figured he had gotten away with it. He rose, splashed his face with water from the tap, and fetched the champagne.   

He was watching the bright pink hibiscus syrup settle on top of the champagne when a heavy tread entered the room. He could smell Gereon's aftershave, and a moment later his suspicions were confirmed when a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder and a familiar voice rumbled quietly, "Bad day?" 

He took a deep breath and let it out slow. "No. No, it was a great day, in fact. The rain was a bit of a wrinkle, but... you know." 

Gereon took one of the flutes and lifted it to the window, admiring the way the warm northern sun filtered through it, turning it golden. "Is this for me?" 

"Er. Yeah." 

Gereon snorted. "The alcohol percentage is practically nil. I doubt it will do any harm." He presssed the flute into Carver's hand. "He's ready for you if you are." 

Carver steeled himself and returned to the bathroom, mimosas in hand. Felix was sitting on the edge of the drained tub, patting himself dry—he bent over to get between his toes, and Carver could have counted the knobs on his spine if he cared to. He didn't.  

"Sorry I missed the fun," he said, dry-mouthed. Felix sat up and smiled at him.  

"That's all right. Let me just put something on." 

He walked by himself to the room he shared with Carver and pulled on pants, leggings, and a soft, longsleeve flannel of Carver's that drooped around his wrists and thighs. It made him look even smaller than he already was, vulnerable—Carver leaned in and accepted a kiss on the cheek, and it smelled faintly of mint and coconut.  

"Are you alright?" 

Carver stood back and blinked at him. "I—yeah, I'm fine. I'm good." 

Felix looked back quietly. His face was set and serious, eyes turned a glittering grey by the light slanting through them from the open window; he searched Carver's face, and Carver felt naked, as if every thought and fear he'd held close in the past twenty minutes had been blurted out for Felix to examine at his leisure. But Felix didn't press him, just took one of the flutes and his hand, and let him to the porch.  

"Oh, before I forget." Carver dug around awkwardly in his wet, sandy pocket before joining him on the swinging deck chair, finally producing the small, glistening pearlescent shell he'd managed to snag from the tide's grasping fingers. It was damp and full of sand, but he dropped it into Felix's hand anyway. "This is for you." 

Felix set his glass aside and examined the little shell with a beaming smile, wiping it clean with the pad of his thumb. "It's lovely. Thank you." 

Carver bit his lower lip and nodded. "Yeah. I, um, I know it's not..." His heart stuttered. "I know it's not a ring, but. I thought maybe, if you wanted, it could... be that. Serve that purpose." 

Felix closed his fingers protectively around the little shell and held it against his sternum. "Carv..." 

"I know... I know there's not a lot of time. Left. But. I love you, Fee, more than anything. You're all I want. So." With every limb a-tremble, he slowly got down onto one knee, mimosa in one hand and the other on Felix's thigh, steadying him. "Felix Alexius, would you marry me?" 

Felix closed his eyes, but only for a moment; when he opened them again they were steadier, direct, and Carver felt the gaping cavity in his chest fill just a little when he said, decisively, "Yes. Yes, Carver Malcolm Hawke, I'll marry you." 

His voice shook a little at the end, but Carver didn't mind. He just bent his head, forehead to Felix's knee, and felt the soothing pull of a fine-boned hand combing through his wet hair. "Love you." 

"Love you too, _amatus_." With a few firmer tugs, Felix coaxed his head up and leaned down to meet him halfway with a hibiscus-sweet kiss, and for one brilliant, sun-soaked minute, Carver was at peace.  


	30. fight me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my dear cheerleaders Becca and Tasha and em, based on [this](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/150527326785) tumblr post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hospital mention

Everyone and everything in the world is terrible. Felix has just decided this. The queasy smell of hospital coffee from Dorian’s abandoned cup next to his bed; the  _ bed _ , if it can be called such, with its scratchy bedding and stiff-as-cardboard mattress; the oximeter that clasps so tightly he can feel every pulse of blood through the tip of his finger. It’s enough to drive a man mad. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s the bloody fucking  _ cannula _ drying out his nose and making him long to itch it, if he could even lift his hands from the bed without breaking a sweat.

There’s a little tap on the door and the nurse comes in without waiting for an answer. Not as though Felix could really give one. His voice is still sore and scratchy, and there’s so many strange drugs dancing through his veins like little fireflies that he can barely summon the will to blink his eyes angrily. How dare these nurses just burst in without a care. It’s not as if they own the place. Well, sort of. But Felix is tired of being surrounded by  _ people _ , and  _ noise _ , and he’s supposed to be  _ resting _ but how can he rest with all this constant commotion? He scowls to show his disapproval while the nurse checks his vitals and his chart, whistling soundlessly between his teeth. 

“And how are we feeling this evening, Mr. Alexius? Or is it Felix? Should I call you Felix?”

_ You should call me Shut the Fuck Up _ , Felix thinks vehemently, but all he can summon to his lips is a dry croak. 

“Ah, right. Water probably wouldn’t go amiss.”

Felix blinks very slowly, and suddenly the nurse is right there in front of him like a big blue house, his scrubs straining across broad shoulders as he holds a little paper cup to his lips. His name tag dances in front of Felix’s eyes, and he squints, trying to make out the letters.  _ C. A. W… no, that’s a V… _

Water spills down his chin and he splutters like he’s just been dunked underwater. “Easy!” the nurse rumbles patiently. He dabs the water away with a corner of the sheet, but badly, like Felix’s mother used to when she tried to wash his face before dinner but always left him damp and vaguely itchy behind the ears. He scowls harder and manages a croak. 

“Fight me.”

The nurse pauses in surprise, blinking at him with a pair of very blue eyes. Then he laughs aloud—not a loud belly laugh, but a gentle, sonorous chuckle, a sound that falls like soft cotton on Felix’s ears. “Maybe later,” he says, adjusting the pillows behind his head. Somehow it seems to help, and the bed is a little less uncomfortable. “Here, I’m going to give you a little more of the good stuff. Try and get some sleep, your body needs rest.”

_ My body needs to get the fuck out of this bed _ , Felix thinks irritably. But his thoughts are already sliding together, turning to useless mush. The last thing he sees before sleep takes him is the curl of a reluctant smile and a pair of sky-blue eyes watching him, amused and friendly.

///

The next day he is feeling much better. His father comes to visit during the day, and he is allowed to have his phone back so he spends the afternoon texting Dorian, who is at first resistant— _ I’m in class, Fee, I can’t entertain you right now— _ but eventually succumbs to keeping him occupied with a scathing commentary on his current student load. He sleeps through dinner, and when he wakes up it’s to careful fingers against his pulse point and a familiar pair of eyes frowning down at his watch. 

“Hello again,” the nurse says when he sees he’s awake. “Are we, perhaps, in a less recalcitrant mood?”

And just like that, his contentedness sours. “Fight me,” he snaps, or tries to—on the second syllable a wad of phlegm catches in his throat and he starts coughing, the wet, hacking, endless kind that hurts his chest and makes black spots dance before his eyes. The nurse helps him sit up and rubs his back and gets him tissues to spit into, and when it’s over he’s so tired he sinks bonelessly back into the pillows and hates himself for how helpless he is. At least he didn’t try to force an oxygen mask back over his face.

“I’m not going to fight you, Mr. Alexius, I’m sorry,” the nurse says, breaking his gloomy thoughts with a little smile. “I prefer to pick fights with people I can actually beat.”

He’s afraid to laugh in case it triggers another coughing fit, but he can’t help smiling. The nurse winks and pats his hand. 

“Just another day or two. You’re doing very well, all things considered. Let me make a few notes in your chart and we’ll see about getting some cough medicine added to your prescription.” 

Felix mumbles something unintelligible in response and shuts his eyes. If he stays awake they’ll make him eat more of that horrible sludge they tried to serve him yesterday. It would be better for everyone involved if he just sleeps. 

///

Two days later finds him awake and alert and itching to leave. They’re making him ride in a wheelchair to the front door, which is ridiculous, since as soon as he leaves he’s getting into Dorian’s car under his own power and walking up to his flat, but such is the circuitous logic of hospitals. 

“Thank you for bringing me my clothes,” he says fervently, doing up the buttons on his favorite shirt with fastidious hands. It’s a pale blue with darker blue birds embroidered on in a tiny, delicate print, and the buttons are small and coolly metallic against his fingers as he fastens them all the way up to his throat. Then his cuffs, one button each, before folding them halfway up his forearms. With the shirt tucked into his own dark wash jeans, and his own socks and shoes, he feels a great deal more human than he has the past few days. “And everything else—chauffeuring me, visiting me…”

“Please don’t say another word, my dear. It wasn’t any trouble at all.” Dorian signs the bottom of his release paperwork with a flourish. “There. Now all that remains is to wait for the nurse to arrive with the wheelchair.”

“Ridiculous,” Felix grumps, sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s his lungs that’ve been troubling him, for heaven’s sake, not his  _ legs _ . 

As if summoned by his ire, there’s a tap on the door and the nurse from before comes in, wheeling a chair one-handed before him. In the other is a coffee—not a wretched hospital coffee, but a Starbucks, which he hands to Felix with a flourish and a smile. “A parting gift. And an apology, for being so terrible.”

Felix can read his nametag now. It says  _ Carver Hawke _ , and there’s a little smiley face on the end that he suspects was not drawn by the man wearing it. “You weren’t terrible,” he says a bit dumbly, accepting the coffee. It smells amazing—a plain soy latte by the smell of it, and of course he  _ would _ know about his dairy intolerance, he’s been knee deep in Felix’s medical history for the past few days—and he can’t help but breathe it in and sigh with relief, holding it close to his chest. “ _ I  _ was the terrible one, and I don’t deserve this.”

“Well, take it anyway.” Carver shrugs, seeming embarrassed. “Shall I wheel you down, or d’you want your friend to…?”

“Why don’t you,” Dorian says hurriedly, before Felix can sort through his own feelings on the matter. “I’ll get Felix’s things—we’re just going down to my car, it’s parked near the entrance.”

Carver takes charge of the wheelchair once Felix is sitting in it, and Dorian walks alongside making small talk—or trying, anyway. Carver isn’t much for conversation, it seems. His replies are mostly monosyllabic, and Felix holds his coffee in his lap as he counts the seconds to the front door. The nurse may be cute, but with Dorian here it’s difficult to strike up any kind of meaningful conversation. And what would he say, anyway? Comment on the state of his lungs?  _ Bad _ , he thinks wryly to himself.  _ Usually bad.  _

Then they’re at the entrance. Carver shakes Dorian’s hand and mumbles some sort of farewell to Felix, and the next thing he knows he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Dorian’s car, a bit forlorn. He lifts the coffee to his lips and takes a sip, just for something to do, and adjusts his grip as he lets it rest against his knee. 

Something hidden just beneath the cardboard sleeve catches his eye. He moves his thumb, pulling the sleeve away from the cup, and bursts out laughing. Scrawled on the side in blue biro reads,  _ Fight me? :) _ And underneath, ten neat digits that can only be a cell number. 

“What are you laughing about?” Dorian demands as he climbs into the front seat, fishing his keys out of his breast pocket. 

“Nothing,” Felix lies, covering the number with his thumb. He’s already got it memorized. He pulls out his phone with his other hand and opens a new message. 

_ You’re on.  _


	31. truth-teller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from em on tumblr, but in reverse. “I keep telling them we’re not dating, but they keep telling me friends don’t normally make out when drunk.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Mm?” Felix puts down his newspaper and looks at him from across the kitchen table. “Don’t understand what, darling?”

“I mean, we _live_ together. We do... _things_ together.” Carver stirs sugar into his coffee, watching the cream blend it into a soft caramel color. Under the table, his sock feet meet with Felix’s bare toes, which flex in response. “But Isabela still insists on trying to ‘set me up’ with her friends, and Garrett goes on and on about how Mum’s worried about me, not having anyone _special_.”

“We aren’t very demonstrative, you know,” Felix puts in with a tiny smile. He folds up the paper—a special Tevinter print that he has delivered from the international bookshop downstairs—and sets it to one side, focusing on the remains of his toast. “Perhaps that’s the issue.”

“Are you saying we should be more affectionate in public, then? Kiss and cuddle and so forth?” He can’t help making a face as he says it. He’s a private person by nature, and Felix comes from a culture that still frowns on same-sex couples, even years and years after reforms were made protecting the rights of citizens of all sorts. There’s a reason Ferelden and Orlais and the Marches are full of Tevinter ex-patriots, particularly younger ones seeking more open-minded societies in which to raise their families.

He and Felix have discussed children a few times. They’ve been together nearly three years now, living together longer than that as roommates, and it’s a natural conversation to have at their age, both established in their careers and watching as their friends pair off and start to form their own little nuclear units. According to Kirkwall law, however, they are required to conduct a civil union before considering adoption, and whenever the topic comes up, Felix expresses caution and Carver…

Well, Carver isn’t _against_ marriage, as it were, but he’s never considered himself the marrying type. And even if he were, his family is convinced that he’s still single. He’s mentioned Felix to his mother, in a stammering, roundabout sort of way, and in passing to his siblings, but Bethany is the only one who takes him seriously.

“Would you like to?” He’s got his long brown fingers wrapped around his coffee cup now, and Carver looks at them intently, trying to picture a ring glinting there—perhaps white gold, or platinum.

“Like to what?”

“Touch me.” Felix’s mouth deepens at the corners, which means he’s trying not to laugh at him. “In public.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carver mutters, nudging his foot under the table. “You said it yourself. We’re neither of us… what was it. _Demonstrative_. Are we?” If there’s a tinge of anxiety to his tone, he won’t own up to it. Felix sets down his coffee and takes his hand consideringly.

“I love you, Carver. You know that, don’t you?”

He does. And he knows what it costs him, even now, to admit it. After living so long in fear, second-guessing every moment he spent too long in another man’s company, _alone_ … Between him and Dorian, Carver isn’t sure who is worse off. He reaches across the table with his palm open, and smiles when Felix slides his own hand into it. “I do know it. And I love you.” He kisses the tender skin on the inside of his wrist, and then the curl of his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else says, does it?”

“It doesn’t, and it does.” Felix smiles back, a little bit sadly. “They’re your family, Carv. Our friends. It isn’t as if we set out to hide anything in particular, and yet…”

“And yet.” He heaves a sigh. “I don’t know what it is I’ve done wrong.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Felix chastises. “If anything the fault is on both of us. If there _is_ fault to be had.”

Carver ducks his head and Felix releases him, moving instead to cup the side of his face. “Does your father know?”

“About you, you mean? He does. He wasn’t displeased. I think he knew it, or expected it at least. And Dorian knows, of course, but it hardly matters since he’s living in Ferelden with his farmboy.”

“Oi. I was a farmboy once,” Carver protests, and Felix chortles.

“Indeed you are. I never tire of those shoulders of yours.” He drops his hand to squeeze the shoulder in question, and Carver flexes just a little bit. “Darling, I have a thought.”

“What’s that?”

“Your birthday is coming up in a few weeks, isn’t it. Yours and Bethany’s. Why don’t we host a little gathering here? We have the space, goodness knows—it’s only our deplorably private natures that keep us from having regular guests.”

“You’re saying, having a dinner party and act all… _lovey-dovey_? Like a pair of show-offs?”

“In the privacy of our own home? What could be better? We can select the guest list carefully, provide plenty of drink and good food. They can hardly fail to see it—or to see _us_. In our natural habitat.”

Carver lifts his eyes from the breakfast nook to the rest of the apartment, or what he can see of it. They don’t frequently have guests, it’s true, but if they did perhaps their relationship would be less circumspect—the space is a perfect blend of the two of them, in the way that a space becomes when shared by two people in intimate circumstances. Their shoes are all mixed up on the carpet by the door, and a few throw pillows sourced from Tevinter spruce up Carver’s oak-framed Ferelden couch. The window dressings are Tevinter, and the rugs, but there are paintings on the walls from Bethany and from her friends studying with her at the Free Marches Institute of Fine Art in Ostwick.

If one were to venture into the bedrooms they would find only one with a bed, large enough for Carver’s bulk and at least two of Felix besides—for when the nights grow warm, as they sometimes do in summer, Felix prefers the lounge on one side of the mattress while Carver sprawls on the other—and the remaining room is a reading nook and a study that they share, for work and for leisure. On the roof is a garden that Felix tends, but it has a few herbs and hardy fruit shrubs of Ferelden origin, including a rambling rose vine that Carver had transplanted from their old cottage in Lothering.

There are only a few rooms, but the kitchen nook opens onto the kitchen and the living room in one large space, divided only by the couch and a bar where they have dinner, and the ceilings are high and whitewashed, making everything seem more open and inviting. He could definitely see ten people in here comfortably, and more if they open up the terrace and put some chairs out on the roof. He kisses the back of Felix’s hand thoughtfully, idly, and nods.

“I like it, this idea of yours. Let’s do it.”

Felix beams. “It’s settled, then. I’ll see about putting out invitations today.”

///

 _Is three hours too soon to ask everyone to leave?_ Carver wonders. He’s hiding in the study with Max, Felix’s silver point cat who likes crowds just about as much as Carver does. Fifteen people suddenly seems more like fifty packed into their apartment, even with the terrace and the roof open for guests to come and go, and most of them up there where the drinks and finger foods are plentiful. Felix had done some of the preparation himself, but the rest was catered, and Carver is thankful; he can’t imagine how much work it would be to make all that food, only for it to be scarfed down in five minutes flat.

The door creaks open slightly and he freezes, but it’s only Felix. His boyfriend’s eyes crinkle up adorably at the sight of him and he slips into the room entirely, leaving the door cracked behind him.

“Tired of hosting already, my love?” He scoops Max up and kisses his nose, which the cat tolerates a moment or two before escaping to sit on the windowsill, prickling his fur indignantly.

“Just taking a breather.” He heaves himself out of the chair in preparation to return to the hordes, but Felix steps in close and puts his head on his chest, so he relaxes again. One hand rubs against his side and the other in his short-cropped hair, and Felix melts against him. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Good. But I feel as if the whole point of this is failing miserably.”

“I thought the point was Beth’s and my birthday? Ouch!” His innocent query is interrupted by a sharp pinch on the bum. “Fee!”

“You know what I mean.” Felix raises a stern eyebrow. “You haven’t held my hand _once_ tonight.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… frazzled. Like it’s all coming to a head.”

“Oh, sweetheart. This was supposed to be relaxing. It is your birthday, after all.” Felix lifts up on tiptoe and smudges a kiss to his left eyebrow. “Listen, don’t overthink it. Let’s just be natural. Normal.”

“That’s the _problem_ , isn’t it? Our ‘normal’ is so boring that no one will believe me when I say we’re dating.” He’s got one hand splayed on Felix’s lower back, keeping him close. With a quick glance to the cracked-open door, he slides it lower to cup his arse and give it a companionable squeeze. Felix makes a little appreciative sound in his throat and smiles. “I just, I don’t know. If I grope you in public then I’ll _never_ get a moment’s peace, will I?”

“Perhaps I should grope _you_ , then,” Felix suggests wickedly. He sticks his lower lip out in a pout and Carver ducks down to suckle on it. Felix hums and slides his hands into Carver’s back pockets, making him jump. “That’s more like it.”

“Should we really be doing this?” Carver asks, even as he trails kisses along Felix’s stubbled jaw to the exposed bit of throat left bare by his tilted head.

“Why not? In our own home? No one can even see us, love. Which does rather defeat the purpose—mmf!” Silenced by Carver’s mouth, Felix digs his fingers in and parts his lips on an exhale, letting their tongues slide together comfortably. Everything about him is comfortable. The weight of him in Carver’s arms, his scent, his easy willingness to open under Carver’s slow invasion. For a moment the outside world fades away. The music from the roof. The clank and clatter in the kitchen as Varric mixes up something nearly toxic for those brave enough to drink it. The rumble of conversation from the living room, mixed with the rising peals of laughter as Bethany giggles at something Anders has just said. All of it, gone. For a moment.

“Holy shit, Carv, you were telling the truth.”

The door bangs open at the same time that they spring apart, red-faced. Carver gulps in air as his heart slams against his chest, and in the doorway Isabela props her hip against the frame and folds her arms under her breasts, shaking her head slowly.

“Uh. Yeah, I was. _Now_ do you believe me?” For the hell of it—they’ve already been caught out, haven’t they?—he hooks his fingers in Felix’s belt loop and pulls him in tight, hip to hip. Isabela smirks.

“I dunno, I think you should make out a little more. _Really_ try to convince me.”

“Uh, no. That’s enough of that.” He waves her out of the room, flapping his hands and following her out into the hall. She goes, snickering. When they’re alone again he snaps the door shut and turns to put his back against it. Felix’s mouth is twitching as he looks at him from the middle of the room, still flushed and trying not to laugh. “So… mission accomplished?”

“Mm. Something like that.” Felix ducks his head, grinning at the floor. “But if you wanted to _make_ _out_ a little bit more, well… I wouldn’t complain.”

“Yeah, all right. C’mere, then.” He opens his arms and Felix burrowed into them, offering his mouth to be kissed. Which Carver does, extensively, until there’s a bang on the door and his brother’s voice comes through it, protesting that Carver is missing his own bloody party. When they come out, Garrett looks not at all surprised by their flustered states; he only grins wickedly and ushers them down the hall, declaring they’re about to make some toasts.

And blessedly, no one says anything. There are inquisitive eyes peering at them from over the rims of glasses, and a smattering of applause when Felix gives Carver a quick kiss on the lips after the birthday wishes have been handed out, but nothing out of the common way. And a few hours later, when everyone has left, Felix situates himself on Carver’s lap where he sits on the couch and straightens his collar with a proud smile.

“Do you think it worked?”

“If Isabela’s wagging tongue hasn’t spread the news over all Kirkwall by now, I’ll be much surprised.” He shuffles a little lower on the couch and squeezes Felix’s thigh to keep him steady. “Now, unfortunately, you’ll have to start deflecting heavy-handed suggestions from my mother about _grandchildren_.”

“I’ve weathered more terrifying storms, my dear, I assure you.” Felix lays a hand against his cheek and smiles. “I think I’ll look forward to this one.”


	32. not forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern Warden AU, from em's and becca's prompt on my tumblr: "I thought you forgot about me." "Never."

Felix can’t seem to catch his breath. He scrambles down the bank, boots catching and slipping in the mud, and by the time he reaches the bottom he’s a sopping, soiled mess, hands coated with dirt and his scarf plastered to his face by the rain. He muffles a cough into his elbow and leans against the rocky wall, trying to breathe normally. He’d thought becoming a Warden was supposed to cure him of this, supposed to turn him into some kind of super-soldier that could out-tough anything. Two months of training later and he’s not entirely sure he can tell the difference. 

But he doesn’t have time to sit and wallow. The darkspawn are still on the move, even less daunted by the rain than he is, and the rest of his unit has disappeared into the rain-drenched gloaming. They hadn’t even noticed he’d fallen behind. Typical. A bunch of jumped-up Ferelden boys eager to devote themselves to the cause, and to following Corporal Sigrun’s barked orders like she was the moon and stars. Felix sighs and gathers himself to forge onward.  _ They _ might not realise he was missing, but someone would eventually, and the last thing he wants to be accused of is desertion. 

_ Sorry, ma’am, I wasn’t trying to desert, I’m just a pathetic bag of bones that can’t keep up with everyone else. Please don’t have me flogged.  _

She wouldn’t, of course. Sigrun wasn’t like that, and neither was the Warden-Commander. The Wardens were a rough bunch, but they weren’t total savages. They knew the life they lived was a difficult one, and they did their best to make it liveable when not out in the field. 

But Felix was very much currently in the field. Or rather, the field was on _ him _ . Still, he forges onward, toes catching on the uneven cavern floor and water dripping on him from the open sky above. So much for the Deep Roads—it was more of a crevasse, really, open to the elements in most places and tangled up with deadfall and crumbling, ancient vines that still split the rock face here and there, so that the walls were cracked and broken like the skulls of ancient giants laying where they had fallen ages ago. In some places the cavern walls drew close, narrowing so that he struggled to pull himself through the gaps, and everywhere the rainwater collected in pools and rivulets that splashed over his boots and hid the treacherous floor from view. 

He couldn’t even see his companions ahead of him when his foot caught and sent him sprawling. He spat out tepid rainwater and struggled upright again, stifling a cry when his ankle burned in protest. Maker, now he’d done it. Surely they’d lost their pursuers by now? If he just… hobbled over to this rock… here out of the weather… maybe someone would come back for him. 

There’s a sudden, unholy screech and he yelps, fumbling for the handgun in its holster. He hasn’t been cleared for a bigger weapon, yet—his hands are too unsteady and his grip too weak for a rifle—and it’s all he has to point at the darkspawn that has dropped down from above to slaver at him. It’s not one of the bigger ones, thank goodness, just a scrawny hurlock dressed in old rags and armed with what looks like a serrated butcher’s knife, but the shock of its appearance and the sharp twist of his ankle as he stands erect makes his first shot go wild. The echoing crack of it splits his ears, and the flat of the hurlock’s blade lashes out against his wrist like a teacher scolding a child for poor performance. The handgun drops and skitters across the wet floor, disappearing beneath the water of a murky pool. Felix sits down, hard, shutting his eyes. Maker, what an embarrassment he turned out to be. At least it will be over soon. 

There’s a whistle of wind and a wet  _ thunk _ , and he opens his eyes in time to see the ’spawn crumple in a wet heap, killed by the wicked-looking silver star embedded in its skull just over its ear. He’s suddenly breathless again, this time with relief. From the darkness, Captain Hawke jogs out, face like thunder but quickly softening as he takes in Felix’s twisted ankle and gasping breaths. 

“Maker, Alexius, why didn’t you tell anyone you were falling behind? What happened?” He scoops up the handgun from its puddle and flicks the safety on before handing it back to him. Felix’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely keep a grip on it, but he manages to stow it back in its holster without incident. 

“I was keeping up,” he insists weakly. “Sort of.” He grits his teeth as Hawke gets an arm around his waist and heaves him upright. His calf twinges a warning and he grips the other man’s belt for balance, ignoring the way his body armor bruises his knuckles. “I—I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never,” is the bracing reply. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Just a sprained ankle,” he says, though he suspects it’s rather worse than that. “The ’spawn didn’t touch me.”

“Busted ankle, huh? I don’t suppose you can twiddle your fingers and do a little something just to keep you going ’til base? No? Fuck, you’re the worst Tevinter mage I’ve ever met.”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he replies with more cheer than he feels. Hawke grunts something that might be a laugh and turns, gathering his legs underneath him. 

“I’m going to boost you up, okay? We’re not far behind. Link your arms around my neck like we showed you in basic.” There are strong hands clasping his thighs, and Felix does as ordered, gripping his forearm with the opposite hand as Hawke hoists him up onto his back. “Good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Hang on then, it’s bound to be a bumpy ride.”

It  _ is _ bumpy—Felix clings on for dear life as the Captain takes off, trotting at an impressive clip as if he’s not carrying an entire person on his back. Felix is underweight, sure, but he’s still a solid ten stone with all his gear, and Hawke doesn’t appear to be bothered in the least. 

When they catch up to the others, they appear to have been waiting for them. Sigrun barks an order and they take up the pace again, faster than before, and Hawk has no trouble keeping tight to their heels. 

There is no more sign of darkspawn, and when they break the surface and see the bulk of Vigil’s Keep looming in the near distance, everyone seems to breathe a sigh of relief. Felix included. He’s wet and aching and bedraggled, clinging like a wet rat to the back of his rescuer, and as impressive as it is, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. 

He isn’t allotted a week, unfortunately, but a day of bed rest while the bones of his ankle settle into their healing. The medic tsks at him before leaving him alone in his little corner of the sickbay, and he falls asleep in an instant. When he wakes, it’s well into morning of the next day. And he’s not alone. Sitting beside his bed, flipping through a manual of some kind, is Captain Hawke. Felix stirs, wondering if he’s required to salute him while laying down.

“Alexius.” Hawke slaps the manual down on the bed and looks at him directly, elbows on knees and his hands folded between them. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, sir.” He sits up, feeling like a bit of a prat lying down when there’s not much wrong with him. “Thank you for…”  _ Saving my life? Hauling my ass all the way back to the Keep?  _ Neither of those options sound good, so he doesn’t say anything at all.  _ Smooth, Felix. Real smooth _ . 

“Don’t worry about it. If you want my opinion, the Commander should have held you back for more training before sending you out in the field.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “You aren’t like the others, Alexius. You’re as willing as the next man to do what is asked of him—or her—but you don’t hail from the same background that many of our recruits do. Not to mention you already had had the Taint for years by the time you came to us.”

Felix ducked his head and looked at his hands folded on the coverlet. He was being told off, then. In the gentlest possible way, which somehow made it worse. “I know I’m useless to the Wardens—”

“Stop,” Hawke interrupted sharply. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, there are other uses for you besides in the field. Look around. We’ve got Wardens in the med bay, Wardens advising the Commander and messing with all the political bullshit that flows through this place like sewage. Everyone is trained for battle because that’s just standard protocol, but if you meet the basic requirements there are other places you can serve.”

Felix can’t help the wry, sour smile that twists at his mouth. “And what place do the Wardens have for a sickly Tevinter mathematician who can’t even heal his own sprain in the field?”

“It was a break, Alexius, not a sprain. And pride isn’t going to serve you well, so stop pretending you weren’t badly hurt. If there isn’t a place for you here, then make one. That’s how we work.” He pushes the book toward him until the spine bumps up against his knee. “Here. The history of Warden service in Ferelden. Maybe it’ll inspire you.” He stands and dusts off his trousers, still the regulation grey-green camo even though he’s off duty. “As for basic, I have a few ideas. When you’re feeling better, report to my office and we’ll work on a personalized training regimen. Until then, rest up. And chin up, Alexius,” he adds, softer. “I know this isn’t what you wanted out of life—it’s not what any of us would have chosen really, is it? But we learn to make the best of it.”

“Sir,” he says, just for something to say. Saluting now just seems silly. Hawke nods and turns away as if to go, then hesitates. 

“When we’re not on duty, you have permission to call me Carver.” 

It’s almost an embarrassed offer, and it warms Felix all the way down to his toes with the unexpectedness of it. “Right. And I’m Felix.” He holds out his hand, nonsensically, but Carver takes it as solemn as a Chantry sister at confession. 

“I know,” he says, one corner of his mouth curling up in a hesitant smile. “See you around then, Felix.” He nods again and leaves the sickbay, but not before Felix notices the pink flush developing in the tips of his ears, not quite hidden by his short, regulation haircut. 


	33. take me to church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An oldie but goodie: "Please, just stop talking," a prompt I filled ages ago for jackthegiantkiller.

“…I know she’s adorable, but Mia’s going to have to figure out something to keep her from eating all the flowers instead of throwing them down the aisle, and whatever that organist is playing sounds like a trumpet march from hell–”

“Felix!” Carver rounds on him and backs him into the wall, arms bracketing him on either side. All he wanted was some peace and quiet away from the chaos of Cullen and Dorian’s wedding rehearsal, but his boyfriend is making it very hard to achieve either one. “For the love of God, _please_  just stop talking.”

Felix, predictably, opens his mouth to protest, and so Carver does the only thing he can think of: he leans in and covers it with his own.

It’s hot and cloistered in the narrow corridor, thick with the smell of old carpet and dust, and Carver’s neck prickles with sweat under his crisp new collar as he pries Felix’s mouth open with his tongue and invades. After a moment or two of perfect stillness, Felix melts. He lets Carver push him against the wall and grabs his shoulders for support, groaning something unintelligible. His makeshift paper-mâché boutonnière crackles against Carver’s chest, but neither of them care–Carver is too busy groping every last curve of Felix’s arse, and Felix is too busy letting him.

Gradually, the clangor of the organ music fades away, and their kiss slows, shallows, stops. Felix is breathing heavily and still clutching the front of his sport jacket, crumpling the fabric with the strength of his grip; carefully, Carver disentangles them and kisses Felix’s knuckles, each side in turn before stepping away. “We’re going to be missed.”

“Fuck that,” Felix rasps. He clings to Carver’s hands when he would have pulled away. “I can’t go out there like this, there’s no way.”

Carver hums, lets himself be reeled back in to press his nose to Felix’s temple. “I suppose it’s only the rehearsal…”

Felix gasps softly and presses in tight, his erection easing into the crease of Carver’s thigh through two pairs of trousers. Carver might not be entirely soft himself, and he hisses a breath at the shock of sensation that lights up his spine. “We have a few minutes, don’t we?” Felix whispers.

Carver kisses his cheek, then his ear, his neck. “You have to be quiet, love.”

“I know. I will be.” He licks parted lips as Carver pulls away, eyes wide and full of pupil. His throat bobs and Carver leans in for one more kiss before dropping abruptly to his knees. “Oh, God.”

Carver snorts, hands already working busily at Felix’s trousers. “What did I just say?”

“Mmf.”

Carver gets his zip down and goes straight for the kill, one large hand massaging the bulge in Felix’s briefs. There’s another strangled sound, and when he looks up, Felix has two fingers in his mouth, wet and slick already as they slide between his lips. Carver closes his eyes briefly and leans in. Felix smells like laundry detergent and hot, salty skin–when he draws him out of his pants he can smell the musk of his arousal, sharp and hot in the back of his throat. He slides the foreskin back and laps delicately at the head.

“Fuck,” Felix whispers–his fingers linger wetly at the apex of his lower lip as if he’s forgotten what they were meant to be doing. “You _do_ know the definition of a ‘quickie,’ don’t you?”

Carver responds by sucking him down in one go. Felix grabs his hair reflexively, but Carver doesn’t mind; his lover is thick and smooth in his mouth, sliding easily just into the back of his throat, and he hums around his girth as he pushes his nose into the neatly-trimmed fuzz at the base of Felix’s cock.

Felix, predictably, doesn’t take long. Carver concentrates on deep, rhythmic pulls, one hand bracing himself on Felix’s trembling thigh and the other shoved back behind his balls to massage his perineum. Before long Felix is shaking and tugging his hair in warning; Carver swallows when he comes and licks fastidiously beneath the foreskin after, savoring the familiar taste of Felix’s seed on his tongue. 

He gives his hipbone one last kiss and tucks him away, righting his clothing–not a moment too soon. The same instant that he regains his feet, Dorian comes around the corner, mustache twitching irritably, and stops short. “Good heavens. If I’d known you two would be pawing at each other all day I’d have written blowjob breaks into the schedule.”

Felix stares at his shoes, redder than a tomato. “Sorry. We, uh, got carried away.”

“So I see,” Dorian huffs, but he’s smiling. “All right, fix yourselves up and be back in two minutes. We’re running the whole thing one more time before lunch.”

“Got it,” Carver says, trying not to hold himself so awkwardly. It’s a bit late now to be embarrassed about the stiffy in his second-best trousers.

When Dorian is gone again, Felix sidles up to him and puts one clever hand in his back trouser pocket. “Two minutes?”

God, his voice is like melted caramel. Carver shivers and turns into him, nuzzling the sweaty hollow of his throat. “Guess we’d better make the most of it.”


	34. read my lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix meets Carver at a local Deaf/HoH meeting and they hit it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have sworn I posted this before... probably only ever on tumblr. whoops! I'm neither Deaf nor hard of hearing, so any mistakes are mine and I'm happy to correct them.

Felix sees him first by the snack table, lingering off to the side with a tiny paper cup of overbrewed tea cradled in his enormous hands. He stands head and shoulders over almost everyone else in the room, except maybe Bull, who’s currently engaged in a very riotous debate with a couple of rapidly-signing teenagers. Something about dragons and battle strategies, he thinks. Felix turns his gaze back to the stranger. He knows everyone who comes to the TSLA meetings by sight, if not by name, and this face is new to him.

Dorian materializes beside him as if out of thin air. The room is a low, monotonous buzz of people speaking and signing and moving about in the aftermath of the discussion, and his own voice is more vibration than sound when he asks, “Who is that?”

“Carver Hawke.” Dorian says it and signs it, fingerspelling quickly before giving his name sign: right hand in a C shape drawn over the flat of his left palm, an adjusted version of the sign for  _ carpenter _ . 

Felix’s tongue feels clumsy in his mouth without his hearing aids, but he pushes himself anyway. Practice, practice, practice. “Is it a joke?”

“Yes and no,” Dorian says. His lips are familiar to Felix, as familiar as his father’s, and he reads them almost effortlessly as his friend adds, “Carver is his name and his profession, incidentally.”

“I’ve never seen him here before.”

“Friend of a friend of someone.” Dorian gives Cullen’s sign name, hesitates, then lists off a few more: Varric, who supplies the coffee and pastries from his bakeshop, Merrill, and Garrett, the vice president of the TSLA. Felix makes the connection.

“He’s here for his brother, then.”

Dorian shrugs amiably, but there’s a wicked twinkle in his eye that Felix knows not to trust. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

Well that’s no hardship. Felix likes meeting new people, and being fairly confident with his speech makes him more approachable to the non-Deaf people just starting out. He taps Dorian on the elbow in passing and makes a beeline for the corner. 

Carver doesn’t see him coming at first, and as he gets closer Felix can see the family resemblance: fair skin, strong jaw, startling blue eyes. The younger Hawke doesn’t have his brother’s full beard, but it’s not hard to imagine him wearing one. He would wear it well, Felix decides, and then Carver’s eyes land on him and he fumbles a bit with his cup to sign hello.

“Hello,” Felix replies, smiling, hands moving smoothly in conjunction with the vibration of his voice in his throat. “I’m Felix.” 

“Carver.” Signed and spoken. His mouth is full and mobile, and he blushes a little when Felix’s eyes linger there a little longer than necessary. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Is this your first time?”

The conversation flows smoothly from there, Carver’s TSL a little halting in places, but lip-reading and some hands-on assistance fills in the gaps. Carver explains that he’s here partly as a favor to his brother, who insisted on getting him out of the house. “I’m a bit of a recluse when I’m not working,” Carver admits, and when Felix asks what he does, Dorian’s earlier introduction proves correct: he works with wood, literally. Felix persuades him to take out his phone and show him some pictures of his work, and is immediately charmed.

“You’re talented,” he tells him honestly, and smiles when Carver blushes again. He’s a bit bashful, but is happy to chat about nothing in particular until Dorian reappears beside them with raised eyebrows. The rec room has emptied while they conversed, and it’s time to go their separate ways. Felix is disappointed, and it must show—Carver offers to exchange numbers. 

“I’ll meet you at the car,” Dorian announces meaningfully, eyes wide, and he swans off, arm-in-arm with Cullen. 

Felix might be blushing, too, when he types his number into Carver’s phone. They say good night, and that’s that. Until the car ride back to his apartment, when his phone buzzes against his thigh and it’s Carver, saying  _ hello, it’s me. had fun talking with you tonight. maybe I’ll let Garrett bully me into coming again.  _

_ I hope so _ , Felix answers, smiling to himself. He thinks he’d like to see Carver again. 


	35. talking dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No actual dirty talk, sorry. Based on this prompt from tumblr: “Okay wait. Can we stop joking around like we’d ever actually date? It’s really starting to hurt…”
> 
> Feel free to send me prompts @erebones!

This kind of stuff should have stopped bothering him years ago. In college, for example, when the teasing started from their friends and sort of ballooned out from there, dogging his steps even when he graduated a year early and moved a few hours away for his graduate degree. The distance didn’t prevent them from skyping every night, or the teasing _night babe, love ya_ Carver threw his way whenever they signed off. That is, if Felix didn’t fall asleep at the keyboard with a half-written proposal blinking its cursor at him, futile, while Carver rambled away under his breath on the other side of the country. Carver was good at that—just talking without really saying anything. It was a habit he’d picked up from his older sister and never really got rid of. Turns out the sound of his rumbling voice is pretty soothing, even distorted through the tinny speaker on Felix’s laptop. 

Carver went on to get his anthropology degree, with honors, and Felix moved back home to finish his thesis on the sociopolitical intricacies of the Tevinter social strata, and it didn’t stop. People who had never even _met_ Carver referred to him as Felix’s boyfriend. Whenever Felix went out with someone, man or woman, Carver would grill him for details while simultaneously poking fun, pretending to be heartbroken by Felix’s “extramarital tendencies.” 

“I don’t know why we’re still together, honestly,” he sighs dramatically over the phone one night. “You destroy my emotions time and again, and I always come crawling back.” Felix can hear him typing away at something, which has prevented them from skyping, and maybe that’s what gives him the courage to finally stand up for himself. 

“Carv…”

“Yo.”

He makes a face at his ceiling. He’s in bed, and if he’s honest it’s way past his bedtime—he has a presentation to give in six hours, but the low, comfortable tone of Carver’s voice keeps him here in this paralytic limbo—and he’s just so, so tired. In more ways than one. 

“How… long has this been going on? Do you remember when it started?”

There’s a pause, made longer by the distance. They haven’t seen each other in person in almost two years, and it hurts, but the teasing hurts worse. Felix has to put a stop to it. “When what started?”

“The joking around. People thinking we’re together, and us… going with it.”

“Uh. I dunno, college I guess? Kind of hilarious that it’s lasted this long, it’s kind of second nature at this point.” He laughs, and the international connection must be twisting the sound of his voice, because it’s distant and a little bit ugly in Felix’s ears. “That’s just how we are, y’know?”

Felix swallows. “I mean… okay. But do you think we could maybe… not, anymore?”

“Not what?”

 _Bloody stupid, thick-headed…_ “Can we stop joking around like we’d ever actually date?” he bites out. Frustration has made his voice tight and angry, so much so that he can almost hear the frozen silence on the other end of the phone. “I know it’s stupid and meaningless, but it’s really starting to hurt.” More silence. He even checks his phone to make sure the connection hasn’t dropped. It hasn’t.

“Fee…” Carver says finally. He sounds gutted. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Whatever. It’s fine.” But it’s a little too late for those kind of excuses. “Hey, I’m really tired and I have to speak before the faculty tomorrow so—”

“Felix.” Carver’s breathing a little harder than normal. “I’m sorry, just—wait. Please. Five seconds.”

Felix sighs. As if he could deny Carver anything, especially when he sounds like _that_. Desperate. Needy. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to—to make you feel…”

“Carver, I said it’s fine.”

“But it’s _not_ fine, obviously! Or you wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place!” There’s a bit of rustling and clunking, like he’s getting up from his chair and stomping around. Felix can picture him so clearly, phone to his ear, one hand tugging on his erstwhile hair until it looks like the mop of a mad scientist. “I never meant to make you feel like it wasn’t a possibility.”

Felix’s stomach drops. “Sorry?”

“I mean… I just thought you weren’t interested. I thought it was just a big joke, and…” He trails off again, and he sounds so dismal that Felix is actually starting to believe him. 

“So did I. And it was fine, for a while, but eventually it’s like… oh, haha, there he goes again, pretending like he might actually _care_ about me, might actually give two shits about me romantically, but he never will, and it’s… not fun anymore. Like that.”

Carver inhales roughly. “Felix. I’ve never said anything I didn’t mean, or didn’t wish was true. Okay? Please, please believe that. Even if we were just joking around, there was a part of me that wanted… that.”

Felix is feeling a little lightheaded. Grasping for normalcy, he teases, “You mean you were telling the truth when you told Sera you wished you’d been my first lay?”

Deathly silence. “Of course I was. Yes. That, yes, that in particular. Stupid bloody Sutherland, bet he didn’t even treat you the way you deserved...”

A laugh catches in his throat and dies. “It wasn’t terrible, you know. It wasn’t the best thing in the world but it—”

“Well it _should have been_. You deserve that. You deserve to be treated like royalty, Fee.”

Felix rubs his chest, which has started to ache in a very peculiar way. Not cold, and hopeless, but… warm. Bright. Forgiving. “And you think you could do that? Be that?”

“I would be whatever you asked if it meant we could stop dicking around like a couple of kids and actually be straight with each other,” Carver says fiercely. Not _angry_ , just… _intense_. Devoted? “Well. Or not straight, I guess, but…”

“Honest.”

“Yeah. That.” 

Carver takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I never told you. How I feel. It wasn’t fair to either of us to just pretend none of it meant anything.”

“I’m sorry I went off on you,” Felix replies shyly. He’s suddenly not at all concerned about his presentation in the morning.

“Yeah, well, I kind of deserved it.” 

Silence stretches out, but it’s the comfortable kind. If he were twelve, Felix would be twisting the cord of the house phone around his finger, but he’s twenty-six, so he rubs his nose and smiles at nothing, just listening to Carver breathing on the other end of the line. 

“I want to come see you,” Carver says at last. “Can I?”

“Please,” Felix blurts, very nearly interrupting him. “When?”

“When’s your next break?”

“I have a week next month. Technically I’m still supposed to be working on my thesis, but… you should come. I’ll help with the ticket.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Carv. If we’re doing this, especially long distance, we have to share the load. I’m telling you that right now, up front, so we don’t have to fight about it later. Okay? I help with your ticket now, you help with my ticket later, that’s how this is going to go.”

“Yes sir,” Carver murmurs cheekily. It shouldn’t sound as attractive as it does. “I’ll start looking at flights right now. And _you_ should get some sleep.”

“I don’t know if I _can_ fall asleep now,” Felix laments.

“Want me to stay up with you? I know how my dulcet tones just knock you right out.”

Felix snorts, ready to deflect, and pauses. _I don’t have to laugh him off anymore. This is real._ “Actually… yeah. That would be really nice.”

“Cool. I’ll just ramble on about airlines and the shit I need to pack.”

Felix puts his phone on the mattress beside him and switches it to speaker. “I’m turning off the light now.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Don’t forget to take off your glasses.”

The _sweetheart_ stalls him, but he still does as Carver says, taking his glasses off and folding them neatly on the bedside table. “Thanks, babe,” he says, and it feels strange in his mouth now, not a joke or a lie but the _truth_. Against all odds, he’s feeling a little sleepy. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Call me when your presentation is over, okay? I want to hear all about it.”

“I will.” Felix shuts his eyes and smiles. “Now talk dirty to me.”

Carver snickers. A chair creaks as he sits down, and the soft, slick sound of fingers against keys comes tapping through the speaker. And he just… keeps talking. A low swell and sigh like waves against sand, rambling here and there until Felix wakes up to his alarm and realizes he slept through the night with the sound of Carver’s breath keeping him company. 

It’s not til later when he’s leaving his apartment, briefcase in hand and every detail of his appearance perfected, that he checks his phone and finds a text from Carver waiting. 

_You’re going to be amazing. Love you._

He texts back a little _< 3_. He’s totally going to own this presentation. 


	36. private time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompt on tumblr that I forgot about: Carver having some “private time” and Felix accidentally walking in ;)
> 
> This is a mini sequel to my fic "Up Close." Basically, Felix owns a giant dildo and Carver wants to try it out.

Carver has been eyeing the dildo for weeks. Felix hasn’t touched it since they became intimate, saying he prefers the “real thing,” and while it’s a huge boost to Carver’s ego, he can’t help but be a little… curious. Just a little. 

But in typical Carver fashion, he can never quite work up the nerve to just ask. So instead, he waits. He waits until he has the apartment to himself, and then he takes a long hot shower and fetches the lube and goes to lie in bed. For a minute he feels silly, lying there with half a hard-on and a massive purple dildo sitting on the bed beside him. Staring at him, more like. Judging. Then he chastises himself for anthropomorphizing a piece of plastic and gets to it. 

He likes a finger or two up his arse once in awhile, and Felix has such pretty, delicate hands it’s always a treat, but as he works himself open the way he normally does with Felix he starts to feel like a bit of a tit. You’re not used to it, he tells himself as he winces his way through two fingers, watching desperately as his interested cock grows decidedly less and less interested. _Felix has a lot more bottoming experience than you, he probably barely even notices your fingers._

It doesn’t help—his pride is still wounded. But lube and patience work wonders, and with a little time and effort, he’s feeling loose and slippery and his prick is getting fat and pink against his belly. He glances at the dildo and feels a twinge of nerves. It’s been half an hour, and he doesn’t have all day. _Here goes nothing._

At first it feels impossible. He sets the head against his hole and just rests it there for a minute, taking deep breaths, and it doesn’t seem like he’s making any progress. Frustrated, he fists his neglected cock and wiggles the dildo back and forth a bit. He adds lube. Breathes. Feels distinctly like he’s going into labor. And then, so smoothly it’s almost anticlimactic, the head pops in and his body snaps around it like a vise, snug and hot. His prick twitches in his hand. _Fuck, that’s… something else._

A picture suddenly manifests in his mind of Felix doing this exact same thing: working himself open just a room away, thinking of Carver while he fucked himself on this very toy. Arousal sparks through him like a bolt of chain lightning, and he starts to work the toy with a little more enthusiasm. He can only take the first inch or two, but it’s enough to milk his prostate, and the promise of more is a sizzle of heat in his veins. 

He’s only just starting to really get into it when the bedroom door creaks open without warning. He freezes. Felix stands there, struck dumb, his mouth agape and his arms laden with grocery sacks from the local pharmacy. Carver clears his throat. 

“Uh. You’re home early.”

His boyfriend draws in a slow breath and sets down his burden. “I’ve never been happier to have my errands cut short. Jesus _fuck_ , Carver. You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“I’ve been wanting to–” he begins, but his voice fails him as he watches Felix hastily disrobe. Under his nice pressed trousers he’s already rock hard, and he kicks off his briefs and gives his cock a few tugs before crawling up on the bed beside him. 

“Don’t stop,” Felix soothes, stroking his kneecap even as he encourages his thighs to spread wider to accommodate him. “God, you’re gorgeous like this.”

“I thought it would be easier,” Carver admits. He clenches around what little girth he was able to take and gasps. “Can you… can you help me?”

Felix touches his wrist, gentling him. “What do you want? Do you want to keep going, or do you want something else?” His eyes are sharp on Carver’s face, and he doesn’t miss the way Carver’s eyes drop to his cock. “Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

Carver’s mouth is dry as dust. “Please.”

Felix grins wickedly and takes hold of the dildo’s base, gently withdrawing it and tossing it carelessly to the side. “Come here, then,” he says against his lips, and he kisses him, squeezing a generous amount of lube over his own prick and a bit over Carver’s slack hole. “One step at a time.”


End file.
